


child's play

by franticallywhisperedstories



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Lumberjanes
Genre: 72nd Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Mama Bear Jen, usual grossness of the Capitol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6699115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/franticallywhisperedstories/pseuds/franticallywhisperedstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There were boys that pumped their fists, girls that blew kisses to the crowd. There were volunteers that looked like they’d spent their whole lives waiting for this and people that scanned the crowd, desperate for someone to take their place.<br/>Most heartbreaking, though, were the youngest ones. There were more than Jen was used to- the tiny redhead from Four, the thirteen-year-old staring at the ground from Seven, even a twig of a girl that looked too young to even have her name in the bowl from Eleven. Most of the time, there were very few kids that young in the Games. Maybe some of the districts were suffering from hunger this year, forcing more kids to take tesserae.<br/>Whatever the reason, Jen watched through her fingers as child after child was called up to die."</p><p>In which there is no way in hell Jen will let those kids die in the arena, and she will go to whatever lengths necessary to keep them safe. </p><p>Also known as that one Hunger Games AU that nobody really asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've ever been to roanoke-cabin's tumblr page, you may know me as the Hunger Games Anon, or the tenacious little bugger who doesn't know when to quit.  
> Either way, have a prologue already published in some places. This is the beginning of something big, I promise you.

APRIL.

Their applause is scattered, polite, and mixed with pity. She is small, she is fourteen, her eyes are big and her lashes are long and they think that they are sending another child off to die. She wants to prove them wrong, but she isn’t sure that she can, yet. 

She needs a strategy, and she barely hears the boy being called. She’s strong and she’s feisty, and fire runs alongside the blood in her veins. 

She’s ushered backstage, and she thinks that she would like to win, but she isn’t sure that she can, yet.

Her dad grips her shoulders, and he doesn’t cry. She doesn’t either, but neither of them speak. They watch each other, silent. He pulls her into a tight, brief hug, and murmurs things that she pretends not to hear into her shoulder.

-

JO.

She’d like to correct the name they call, but she remembers her dads’ warnings, and she stays silent, lips pressed together like her life depends on it. The token that she will bring into the arena is a gear- small and silver, and well-cleaned. The sunlight glints off of it, cupped in her sweaty palm. They gave it to her and she could see her reflection if she tilted it just right, but she doesn’t.

She thinks that she knows why they’re giving it to her, but she says nothing, and waits for them to explain.

“It’s small,” her father says quietly, glancing at her bubble-headed escort, who is busy chattering about nothing at all with the grim-faced mentors. “It’s small, but can do anything and everything if you put it in the right place, give it the right group.”

She’s whisked away before she can ask, but she remembers their serious eyes as she stands in the training facility, and she remembers their low voices as she makes her way to the red-haired girl in the corner, and she closes her hand around the gear as she asks, in a voice that she wills not to shake, for an alliance.

-

MOLLY.

Johanna has declared her hopeless within five minutes of Molly’s reaping, and now the woman that’s supposed to be guiding her is sitting in the corner, nursing a bottle of sickly-yellow liquid.

She has to admit that Johanna may be right.

Her survival skills are okay, but not anything special, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut to kill an animal, so how is she expected to end the life of another human?

All the same, she doesn’t know what there is to come home to.

She doesn’t think she wants to kill so she can return to her parents, who probably don’t care if she lives or dies. Even the rapidly-fading memory of sunlight filtering through tall, impossibly strong trees isn’t enough to compel her to get blood on her hands.

“Johanna,” she says quietly, and her mentor doesn’t even acknowledge her. “How do you fight if you don’t have anything to fight for?”

Johanna glances up then, expression unreadable. “Well,” she says after what seems to be a long time. “I suppose you give yourself something to fight for.” She pops the cork on another bottle, and Molly puts her head between her knees.

If she focuses enough, the steady thrum of the train sounds like leaves rustling in the wind.  
-

MAL.

When the weather was nice, and the harvest was good, and there was enough money and food, Mal and her friends flocked to the outermost farms and made music with anything they could find. She was in charge of keeping the beat, using rocks and sticks and anything else, really. They all sang, even the ones that had trouble with key, and it generally sounded terrible.

When her name is called, she hears it and nothing else.

Directly afterward, though, standing on stage with people cheering and clapping and her escort saying something stupid, there is cacophony that only she can hear. The applause turns into a rhythm, measured but wild, and her feet tap against her will. There are birds somewhere, mostly in-key, and muffled words that slip through blood-red lips, pulsing to add a unique beat, and it’s all music, just one giant concert.

She can handle music.

She loves music.

It’s only a couple of days before the first cannon goes off, and that’s when it stops being music and starts being noise, pressing against her eardrums. There are shouts and screams and the muffled clang of weapons, and it doesn’t fit together, smooth and tuned, the way it should.

It isn’t music.

It isn’t beautiful.

That is when she clasps her hands over her ears and tries to drown out the vicious, ugly song of death that pulses in her ears.

She will never stop hearing it.

-

RIPLEY.

She shuffles up to take her place, and she wonders briefly how she can move, how she isn’t frozen in fear. Her escort gives her a sad smile, the way people always do when a twelve-year-old is reaped.  
It doesn’t matter, though. They can save their sympathy. 

She won’t be the one going into the arena.

She hates that idea, too, but she’s trying to be realistic. She has seven older siblings, and a few of them are girls. They’re all within Reaping age. She hates that she’ll have to watch one of them die in the arena, but they’re all so much bigger and stronger, and they’ll have a much better chance than her. That’s just how this sort of thing goes. The escort, with hair that Ripley’s kind of fascinated by, calls for volunteers, and Ripley waits. 

And waits. 

And waits.

They said they would protect her. They promised. They ruffled her hair and called her all the names she hates, and they told her that she didn’t need to worry, that twelve-year-olds hardly ever got called anyway, even though she had to take out tesserae. 

She sees her siblings, clustered together, watching her. She pleads with her eyes, begs them to save her. She’ll be useful around the house, she promises silently. She’ll do twice as much work, she’ll be so much more efficient, she’ll convince the head overseer to give her a better job and then she’ll work extra-long hours until she’s got calluses to rival her dad’s. 

She’ll do all that and more, if someone comes and saves her. 

The escort sighs, and her hair flutters. “And now for the gentlemen.” Ripley hunches her shoulders and stares at the floor. 

They promised.

-  
JEN. 

It’s her last year. 

She has thirty-seven slips in the giant fishbowl that will decide her fate. It’s her last year. She can go home after this with the knowledge that she will never again have to stand here with bated breath, unable to tear her gaze away from the escort’s elegantly manicured hand.

She already knows that she’s never going to have kids (as if she’d willingly bring anyone into a world where they can lose a friend, a loved one, themselves, to the whim of the Capitol) and maybe, next year, she can pretend that she doesn’t care. Yes, the life waiting for her is filled with assembly lines and respiratory diseases and bad air clotted with smoke and oil. But she could have a chance to finish the star charts that hang in her room. She could look at the world through her own lens until things start making a semblance of sense. Her mother told her under the cover of night, so close that Jen could feel her breath on her neck, that people pursued science, once. Before the war, the Dark Days, the Games, there were whole career paths dedicated to figuring out the world, even stretching so far as the stars. 

She wants that.

She wants to know why, even though everyone says that she’ll never find the answer. There is no why, there is no reason to their world. 

The escort’s hand dips. Hovers over a slip, and then pulls back, fingers arcing. Choosing carefully. There are lives at stake here. The woman plays with them, one of many dangerous games. She lingers a while longer, occasionally even picking up a slip only to drop it again. Letting them know how much power she has over them.

Jen grits her teeth. One name, then it’s over. 

One name, and she’ll be free from the Reaping Bowl. One name, and hers will never be entered again. 

The slip is unfolded slowly. The escort reads it and releases a breathy giggle, allowing the suspense to hang above the crowd.

One name, and her feet betray her, walking up to the stage. One name, and she’s pushed behind heavy doors, listening to her mother’s hoarse, desperate screams. 

One name, and she’s forced to play a game that can never really be won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry


	2. Off the Beaten Track Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Occasionally, a Lumberjane may find herself traveling to some great unknown. A good Lumberjane keeps her head in any such situation._

The train ride was quiet, almost unbearably so. Even Cassiopeia, the escort with the long, jewel-studded lashes, had shut up, and Jen was tempted to ask her about the latest Capitol fashions just to fill the air, but she wasn’t that desperate, not yet.

Across from her, Arch sniffled quietly, and Jen turned away, something in her souring. Over a hundred thousand people in District Eight, and she and Arch were the ones reaped. It was like the universe was playing some cruel joke on her, and she thought that she’d much rather go to the Capitol with an unpleasant stranger than with her ex-best friend.

She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. It was going to be a long trip, and she, not for the first time, wished that Eight was closer to the Capitol.

“Jen?”

She froze, head pressed against the window. It wasn’t like she expected to make it to the Games without talking to Arch, but she’d kind of been hoping that they could pretend they didn’t know each other. Yeah, the Capitol liked a good story, but that didn’t mean they had to provide one.

She sucked in a breath. “What?” 

It came out a lot more hostile than she intended, and Arch flinched. She squashed the vindictive pleasure that rose up in her at the sight, and forced her voice to soften. “What is it, Arch?”

“Do you hate me?”

He sounded so vulnerable. She kind of expected him to be the strong one, the tribute people could bet on, but maybe not. 

Everything changed in the face of the Games.

“I don’t hate you,” she said, not very convincingly. Everyone always told her that she was a terrible liar, and it was probably true. “I just- can we not talk about this?”

He nodded immediately, shrinking back. She didn’t know what she did to make him so afraid. She wasn’t exactly fearsome. 

The silence returned with a vengeance, but at least he wasn’t crying anymore. 

Even after so many years, she couldn’t bear to see him cry.

-

Arch’s mentor was a man named Woof. He was quiet and contemplative, and no matter how hard she tried, Jen couldn’t see him killing other children to survive. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You never knew who’ll kill until you make them.

Woof seemed sensible and surprisingly helpful, especially when compared to Jen’s mentor, Rosie, the most intimidating woman in Panem.

Jen was both fascinated by and terrified of Rosie, who had ink on her skin and a perpetual frown on her face and either an axe or a pocketknife in her hand most of the time. She was clearly bored by the Games, and hadn’t talked to Jen at all.

If she was going to survive past the first day, she somehow needed to get Rosie to like her (or at the very least give her some advice). She didn’t know how to do that, exactly. Make herself interesting, or make herself seem worthy, but how long before Rosie realized that it was an act?

Everything in the Capitol was fake, and Jen didn’t want to be. She wanted to be real, even if it was the only good thing about her.

Cassiopeia giggled breathily, cutting short her own tirade about some hotshot designer or something. “Well,” she chirped, “I’ll leave you all to work out a strategy!”

Jen looked up, slightly alarmed. She supposed that it made sense to start on a strategy as soon as possible, but she’d kind of figured that they would wait until Arch calmed down a little.

Rosie stood abruptly, expression all business. “Come with me, Jan.”

It took Jen a minute to realize who she was talking to. “Oh,” she said uncertainly. “Okay. Um, my name is Jen, by the way.”

Rosie didn’t even look at her on the way out the compartment. Jen rubbed her face with one hand and glanced over at Woof, who shrugged, face mostly reassuring. 

She walked into the next room, which was pretty empty, save for a few more rows of heavily-cushioned seats. Rosie was already seated, face devoid of emotion. The light glinting off her glasses made her look vaguely sinister, and Jen suppressed a shudder. 

“Rosie,” she said, sitting across from her mentor. “Did you want to talk to me about something?”

Rosie looked up, as if just realizing that Jen was there. “Not really. Tryin’ to get that escort off your back.”

Jen stared at her lap. It was becoming abundantly clear that Rosie didn’t give a damn if Jen lived or died. Of course she knew that some mentors were like that- distancing themselves from their tributes so they wouldn’t be upset when their district was inevitably out of the running. She knew how it looked, too- she was as scrawny as any other District Eight kid, with the added bonus of thin noodle arms and a perpetually frightened look. She knew that she had no chance, but she wanted some advice in case she survived the Cornucopia.

“Okay,” Jen said, wincing at how quiet and deflated her voice sounded. “Um, thanks, I guess. But- look. I have some pretty good survival skills, I think. I’m not a good fighter, I know that, but I can memorize poisonous plants and berries, and I can remember all the important stuff. Don’t three-quarters of tributes die due to natural causes? I’ve been reading up. . .” she broke off at the look on Rosie’s face.

Rosie pulled her jackknife out, slashing viciously at a thick piece of wood. “Listen, Jess. You’ve got an education, great. You’re a smart cookie, hooray. Maybe you’ll get a gold sticker that you can put on your notebooks. That ain’t gonna save you. And let me tell you this right now,” Rosie leaned in, and Jen shifted, uncomfortable, “no amount of reading will prepare you. You won’t find a book that tells you how to stab a twelve-year-old in the chest, how to steal food from a dying kid. You won’t find a book that will prepare you for the Games, so quit trying.”

Jen bit her lower lip, staring at Rosie’s knife, its repetitive slashes almost soothing. She liked patterns, she liked predictability. Rosie was right. Survival skills were all well and good, but she wasn’t going to survive the Games.

Rosie was watching her. “Figured it out, did you?”

Jen said nothing. Her mentor seemed to be taking some sadistic glee in watching Jen come to terms with the realization that she was going to die. She forced her shaking hands to still. The whole world was making entertainment out of her, but she wasn’t going to give them a show. She forced herself to meet Rosie’s eyes.

“My name is Jen,” she said, and with that, she stood and left the compartment.

-

They watched the other Reapings together, silent. The giant screen was a far cry from the tiny television that Jen had always watched the Games on, and it was jarring to see every tear, every pale face, and every sobbing family so magnified. 

There were boys that pumped their fists, girls that blew kisses to the crowd. There were volunteers that looked like they’d spent their whole lives waiting for this and people that scanned the crowd, desperate for someone to take their place.

Most heartbreaking, though, were the youngest ones. There were more than Jen was used to- the tiny redhead from Four, the thirteen-year-old staring at the ground from Seven, even a twig of a girl that looked too young to even have her name in the bowl from Eleven. Most of the time, there were very few kids that young in the Games. Maybe some of the districts were suffering from hunger this year, forcing more kids to take tesserae. 

Whatever the reason, Jen watched through her fingers as child after child was called up to die. 

-

Nothing could have ever prepared her for the Capitol. She’d kind of expected that, but she was still taken aback by the colorful hair and faces, the gaudy clothes and fashions, the hordes of cheering, smiling people that looked so alien it was hard to believe that they were the same species as those in the Districts. 

Rosie was watching her again. Rosie seemed to have taken a new interest in her since their conversation, but Jen was pretty sure that it was just to see her freak out and mess up, and she wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.

Arch’s mouth was hanging open, wonder clear in his eyes. Jen forced herself to smile, forced herself to wave and act as amazed as her partner. That wasn’t too hard to pretend. Every building she saw was bigger than any of the factories, with towers that stretched to the sky. Everything was shiny and new, giving a modern sheen to the whole city. Even the nicest, newest pieces of machinery back home weren’t half as pretty as the roads they stood on. 

Jen twisted her arms behind her back, keeping her smile as shiny and pretty as everything there. It fit right in, hopefully. She figured that she needed to set herself apart from all the other tributes right off the bat, but she was fairly ordinary. These people were potential sponsors, every one of them, holding twenty-four lives in their soft, polished hands.

The thought made her feel slightly sick, and her smile dimmed. She couldn’t turn away, though. These people were, perhaps, as hypnotized by her as she was by them. 

“Relax,” Rosie muttered to her, which was by far the most helpful thing she’d said all day. “You look ready to kill someone.”

Jen frowned, turning away from the windows. “Isn’t that what they want me to do?” she said, and she could have sworn that the corners of Rosie’s mouth turned upward ever so slightly.

“Wait until you get to the arena. Then they’ll surely be appreciative of how tense you can look. For now, turn back to the window, smile, wave, repeat.”

Reluctantly, Jen did as she was told, plastering her best cheery smile onto her face for the people that would be, soon enough, waiting excitedly for her death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about how everything else will look. I won't switch POVs because that can get messy, so this will stick with Jen's. The prologue was kind of the exception.  
> Also, don't worry about infrequent updates. I have 26,000 words of this already written, and am currently deliberating on a steady updating schedule.


	3. The Break a Leg Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A good Lumberjane knows that some situations require talent in acting. She will be calm and collected at all times, even when she really doesn't feel like it._

“This is going to hurt a little, hon.”

Jen pressed her lips together to avoid a snarky remark (she got sarcastic when tense, which was probably not going to help her in the Games) and closed her eyes. Soon enough, this would all be over, and once the big publicity chariot ride with a lot of fake grins and screaming people was finished, she could maybe retreat to her room and see if the Capitol had any quality literature. 

“You know,” she said, opening her eyes again, “maybe I could go for the jungle woman angle. Hairy and wild, very exciting. Don’t you think that someone like that could win the Games?”

Her stylists eyed each other, probably playing mental rock-paper-scissors to see who got to respond. The one with the purple-blotched cheeks seemed to lose, because she gave the most impressively lengthy sigh that Jen had ever heard and said in a monotone, “I suppose.”

Jen nodded, having run out of excuses not to have all the hair stripped from her body, and closed her eyes again, attempting to picture her backyard. She was beginning to wish that she’d spent more time in pleasant, calming places like that, because she was seriously lacking the sorely-needed visuals. 

She winced, wringing her hands to avoid touching the raw skin on her legs (she’d already done it twice, and both times all the stylists had yelled in tandem). “Leave some on my head, please,” she joked feebly, and everyone ignored her.

Some of the stylists were nice, she’d heard. Some of them liked talking with the tributes. The lofty air of hers seemed a little out of place, seeing as they were the first Capitol citizens that managed to shut up for two seconds.

One of them let out a little moan. They did that a lot too. Jen was learning how to roll with it. “Your eyebrows are a wreck, dearie.”

Jen scowled at her lap. This was tedious and unnecessary. Did it really matter so much how she looked? Was this a death match or a beauty pageant?

She knew better than to say so, however, so the group lapsed again into slightly uncomfortable silence. They could poke and prod all they liked, shape her into their pretty little tribute, but she expected that it wouldn’t be long in the arena before all their hard work was ruined. She hardly expected to receive a silver parachute with a razor in it, although knowing the Capitol it was a possibility. She supposed that it could be used as a weapon, although it seemed like a rather slow way to kill someone.

She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat. Since when had she thought about murder so flippantly? 

“All right!” cooed one of them. Jen couldn’t remember any names. She was normally so good with names, but the ones from the Capitol were very unlike anything she’d ever heard before. “That’ll have to do for now. Your outfit’s waiting!”

Jen avoided the urge to run a hand through her hair. “Okay,” she said. She was saying that a lot lately, giving hesitant consent to everything this warped place was doing to her.

The outfit they brought out, looking ridiculously proud of it, was not great. It was not even good. It was a simple uniform, pewter-grey, with thin trails of what was probably supposed to look like machine oil, but was very clearly not machine oil.

Still, Jen felt more comfortable donning it than the wildly extravagant outfits she’d been dreading, so it would do all right. She knew that she needed to stand out, to make people remember her so she’d gain sponsors, but that mentality went against everything she usually did, and she hated scrutiny. She probably shouldn’t be glad to stay in the shadows, but she was.

“Looks great,” she lied, and the stylists beamed at each other. She didn’t point out that the general factory wear was blue, not grey, and certainly didn’t button. There was no reason to, really. It wasn’t like anyone watching her would know that.

She pulled it on, deeply uncomfortable with how closely the stylists were watching her. She picked at one of the streams of fake oil, and it chipped between her fingers. 

They pushed her towards a mirror. Staring back at her was someone that was not quite a stranger, but more the sort of person one could never really place. She looked good, by Capitol standards, but her mom might not have recognized her.

She looked unsure, so she forced a smile back onto her face. She didn’t symbolize District Eight at all, with her tight-fitting clothes and fake grin. She didn’t know how an outfit could sum up an entire district, anyway.

“Ready for your debut?” one of the stylists asked, and Jen nodded automatically. She was led into a large room (she was slowly getting used to the magnitude of literally everything in the Capitol) and pushed onto a chariot that honestly looked like death on wheels. 

Arch was standing in a similar getup, hair brushed into an odd style. His smile was nervous, but it looked real, and Jen realized that he was actually excited for this.

“Look,” he said quietly. “We match.”

“What a surprise,” she muttered, pointedly looking away from him. She focused on a spot on the wall, immaculately clean and generally very uninteresting.

Cassiopeia raced in front of them, beaming. “Oh good, you’re all set! Jen, dear, do stop looking so murderous. Both of you remember, you’re fabulous, and you’re going to win!”

She said it with conviction, but not close to enough. The chariot lurched forward, and Jen grasped the railing, alarmed.

Arch was laughing, the bastard. Jen glared at him before quickly schooling her expression into one of pleasure and excitement and no amount of fear, no way. 

The chariot pulled slowly into blinding sunlight. Jen blinked and squinted, flooded suddenly with all sorts of stimuli. There were people playing drums, a slow, steady beat that did nothing to calm her nerves and even less to drown out the screaming crowd. She tried to focus on the chariot in front of her, which sported two unhappy-looking trees. 

Arch gently pried her hand from the railing, hissing “Smile!” through clenched teeth, and Jen tried to. Up on the giant screens, the camera focused on them for a moment, showing Arch, who looked a little flustered, and Jen, who looked like she was in excruciating pain, before flitting, disinterested, to another pair. 

The chariot circled the track a few times. Jen waved to the crowd, and no one waved back. Arch’s smile was strong, and his fists were in the air. Once again, he was the picture of a perfect tribute. 

And Jen? Jen wasn’t, and she never would be. If she survived, it would be because she was smart, and resourceful, and cautious. It wouldn’t be because she was popular.

Rosie and Woof tracked them down once they were blissfully away from the eye of the public. Woof’s nervous grin matched Arch’s exactly, and for a moment it was little wonder that they were mentor and tribute, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come.

“Well,” Woof said. “I’ve seen worse.” 

He was trying to be nice about it. Hooray, they weren’t the most hopeless tributes Woof had ever seen. 

Rosie snorted, and Jen prepared herself for a verbal lashing. 

“Terrible,” she said. “No use beatin’ around the bush. Arch, you went from zero to twenty in two seconds. Don’t know what that crowd did to you, but you need to pick a story and stick with it. Janet, I don’t even know what I’m gonna do with you. You alternated between lookin’ like you were gonna be sick and lookin’ ready to kill someone. Again, pick a story and stick with it.”

Arch’s mouth was open in surprise. Jen remembered belatedly that he hadn’t spoken with Rosie much, and was probably unused to such harsh criticicism. 

“My name is Jen,” she said. It was probably a lost cause at this point, but if she was going to die, she wanted her mentor to remember her name. 

Rosie didn’t respond. Instead, she turned and walked away.

Woof pursed his lips. “You’ll get used to her,” he assured Arch. “Rosie is a little testy; she doesn’t much like the Capitol.”

Jen could relate. It seemed impossible that anyone could like this city of gold and lies and betrayal. She missed home more than ever, in the face of a foreign land.

Arch disagreed. “How could anyone not like the Capitol?” 

Woof offered him a weary smile. “The shine rubs off after a while. Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

They were silent during the elevator ride. Any other day, Jen would have loved the elevator, relishing the feeling of watching the ground shrink away below you, but she was tired and sick of pretending, sick of gazing at the Capitol with awe. Arch seemed to pick up the feeling in the room, and he said nothing, although he was practically quivering with excitement and curiosity. 

Floor eight was magnificent and beautiful, but Jen didn’t want it. She wanted to sleep in her own bed, creaky and with a thin mattress. She wanted to be able to hear her mom come in after a particularly long factory shift. She didn’t want magnitude or value, she wanted familiarity, and the only scrap of it was Arch.

“It’ll do,” she said, mostly just to see Arch look at her like she was crazy. Woof chuckled, bid her goodnight, and led Arch into an adjoining room.

Jen collapsed onto the bed, squeezing her eyes shut. She’d read up on medicine a little, back home, and she was sure to do more now that she was here. She had the basic idea of how to treat most things, but there were no remedies for homesickness anywhere.

She breathed in, almost choking on the heavy perfume of the comforter. How on earth was she supposed to smile and wave at people for five more days, pretend that she was having fun, pretend that she felt lucky to be included in such an important tradition of Panem? 

There was a folded nightgown on the other side of the bed. It was remarkably bare- no frills or sequins or lace or whatever else was considered “in” at the moment- and Jen was glad for that. They’d taken away her Reaping outfit when they’d thrown her into her ridiculous costume, and she probably wasn’t getting it back. She wished they’d let her keep it; the dress had been one her mom had worked hours to save enough for and the shoes were her best pair- a little tight from years of being worn to Reapings, funerals, and anything else that warranted nice clothing, but otherwise lovely. 

She slipped the nightgown on before she had time to spiral further into homesickness and self-pity. She was determined to do this right and go home. If that meant pretending, if that meant crafting a totally different persona for herself, if that meant making crude jokes about death and murder, then so be it. She was going to go home. She would not leave her mother alone.

She heard a soft knock at the door and gritted her teeth. She’d known this was coming and it was probably best to just get it over with.

She swung the door open and came face-to-face with Arch. He hadn’t changed out of his factory costume yet. His hands were twisted in front of him.

“Hey, Jen,” he said, trying for a smile and failing miserably. “Uh- pretty weird, right? Me, you, the Games. . .” he trailed off as if just realizing how badly he was communicating.

Jen bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t going to forgive and forget just because they would probably both be dead within a week. She wasn’t about to let him off easy, but he looked so scared, standing there.

He was her district partner, like it or not. The least she could do was talk to him.

“Can I come in?” he asked, peering behind her. 

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?”

“Okay.” She stepped aside, let him through. He walked slowly over to the bed, pretending to be interested in her furniture, which she didn’t doubt was exactly the same as his.

He sat on the bed and motioned for her to sit beside him, but she didn’t, instead choosing to drag up an armchair. He looked even more nervous as she did so.

“So.” He coughed slightly. “They’re, uh, treating us well, aren’t they?”

She stared at him and he shrank back a little. She didn’t want to be doing this. Surely there were some books somewhere in this massive room. She could have spent her time looking for those instead. “Right,” she said. “They’re treating us very well.” It took a lot of effort not to mention the “pigs to their slaughter” analogy. 

“Do you have a strategy?” he asked, leaning forward. _Does it involve me?_ was clearly unspoken.

She shifted slightly. “I have good survival skills,” she said. “I know a lot about the wilderness. I think that, as long as I can find a good place to hide, I can tough it out.”

He nodded, averting his gaze. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you’re good at that. Do you have training with weapons?”

Of course she didn’t. No one in District Eight did. They weren’t like One, Two and Four, training Careers specifically for this purpose, although she’d heard that there was only one Career from Four this year. 

“A little bit,” she blurted. It was entirely possible that they would be up against each other at some point during the Games, and she wanted him to think that she could beat him in a fight. 

His eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Really?” He sounded surprised, but not skeptical.

She nodded. “I mean, just a little. My mom wanted me to be prepared.” It was plausible- Jen had taken out tesserae for as long as she’d been able and her mom was terrified of losing her. 

He nodded slowly. “Smart. You guys are smart.”

He probably hadn’t taken out any tesserae. His family was a far cry from being rich, but they had few people and were decently well-off. He had six slips in the Fishbowl of Fate. She had closer to thirty-seven, a pretty insane amount even for a family as poor as hers. 

She pressed her hands together, adjusting them until they were perfectly level with each other. He waited, watching her and she ignored him. It felt good to have something to focus on.

“Do you want an alliance?” he blurted, and she stopped, hands falling apart and to her sides. She looked at him for a long time, hoping her face didn’t betray any emotion. He held her gaze, despite looking like he was going to throw up. She had to admire him for that.

“I’ll ask Rosie,” she said, and she would. Alliances were a good thing to think about, but they fell apart so quickly. She wanted to meet the other tributes, but if Rosie didn’t think it was a good idea, maybe she wouldn’t. 

Rosie knew these things. Rosie could help her survive.

“I’ll go then,” he said awkwardly. “Uh, let me know on the alliance thing, yeah?”

She nodded, automatically standing to see him to the door. He kept his eyes on his shoes until the door swung shut behind him. 

She stared at the smooth wood for a long time, and then she went to struggle with the complicated latches on the sliding glass door on the other side of the room.

The night was warm and the Capitol was a spread of neon laid carefully before her. She could hear music coming from some of the buildings- music unlike anything she’d ever heard before.

She didn’t like it, any of it, she decided, and spent the rest of the night searching for stars in the weary, polluted sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to update every weekend. Might not always get to it, but I'll do my best.  
> Sorry for the OC. He's trying his best. Don't worry, our favorite girls come soon.


	4. Knot on Your Life Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Many tricky situations can be solved with the appropriate knot. A true Lumberjane has the knowledge of many different knots in the case of one such situation, or for a good party trick._

“Absolutely not.”

Jen swallowed hard and nodded, keeping her eyes on the plate of food in front of her. She hadn’t even thought about alliances until Arch had mentioned them, but she hadn’t been able to forget about it. She didn’t know what she’d been hoping Rosie would say, but there was a shriveled ball of disappointment deep in her stomach.

“May I ask why?” she said, fighting to keep her voice level.

Jen couldn’t see Rosie’s eyes well under the shiny glasses she always wore, but she was pretty sure that Rosie was rolling them.

“Because, let’s face it, you’d be the weakest link. Alliances sound all nice and pretty, working together to survive, friendship to the max and all that, but as soon as everyone’s gotten what they can from each other, boom. You hear that? Cannons. And Jet, you’ll be taken out first.”

It was perhaps a testament to how much Jen had grown accustomed to Rosie that she didn’t flinch at the harsh words. “What if I ally with someone weaker than me? And also my name is Jen.”

Rosie dutifully ignored the last part. “Why would you want to make an alliance with someone weaker than you? Let’s face it, there won’t be a lot of people weaker than you.”

“Balance of skills,” Jen muttered, knowing that she’d lost the argument. “Okay, fine, no alliances. Anything I should do?”

She’d been okay at getting information from Rosie lately. Maybe she could actually get trained. 

“Yeah.” Rosie stabbed at her breakfast with her jackknife. “Run like hell.”

Jen sat back, deflated. “Thanks.”

-

Sweat dripped from Jen’s face, pooling around her shoulders. There had to be a smaller sword somewhere on the rack of weapons. There were more things Jen could use to kill someone in those three feet of space than she’d ever believed possible.

Her trainer in this aspect was an easily irritated buff guy that seemed to feel that he had way better things to do with his time than watch her attempt to swing a sword, and he probably did. Still, he had no helpful criticism, just insults. He was quickly getting on her nerves, but snapping at him was probably not going to do her a lot of good in the long run. 

She embedded the point of her sword into the dummy’s chest with all the strength she could muster, pleased to see stuffing protrude from it and curl around the blade.

“Awful,” her trainer said. “Just terrible. For the love of Panem, go learn how to tie a knot or something.”

She knew how to tie knots. She was pretty good at that. She stood up as straight as she could despite her spine screaming in protest, and looked the guy straight in the eye. “I need to learn how to fight,” she said as calmly as she could. “You don’t have to think that I’m a natural, but your job is to train me, which often implies giving me tips instead of telling me how much I suck. I know I suck. Tell me how to get better.”

He leaned in close and she took a few steps back, bumping into a table covered with a variety of daggers. His breath reeked, a jarring difference from the perfume of the rest of the Capitol. 

“I’m gonna tell you a secret,” he whispered, eyes narrowed into slits. “You ain’t gonna learn how to win in a fight in these six days. You ain’t gonna learn how to swing a sword. You don’t have enough time, and you have the worst build. Now, run off and memorize some edible plants and berries, okay?”

She wanted to yell at him. Tell him that she could do anything she set her mind to. Pick up the sword and try again.

Instead, her traitorous feet turned and walked her to the knot station.

In the time that she’d been working, the Training Center had started to fill up. There were all sorts of people training, and she was highly intimidated by most of them. A girl with a long ponytail and cool eyes strode right up to the weapons rack, selected the same exact sword Jen had just been using, and effortlessly sliced a dummy to pieces with it. 

It didn’t look good. Her biggest hope was that all these flashy tributes with their training, their strength and speed and sponsors, didn’t have as many survival skills as she did. 

There was someone at the knot-tying table too, and Jen’s heart sank when she saw that it was the twelve-year-old from District Eleven. She was even smaller up close, with wide, fearful eyes and carefully brushed hair. Her rope was a disaster of knots, and she’d somehow managed to tie her arms together.

Jen was about to leave, head for the camouflage station, but then she noticed the girl’s hunched shoulders and how she looked close to tears.

Jen couldn’t imagine being Reaped at the tender age of twelve only to discover that you were hopeless with probably the easiest thing in the Training Center.

So instead, she drew closer, watching the girl struggle to untie herself. The girl looked up and, seeing Jen, immediately shrank back.

“Looks like you’re having a bit of trouble there,” Jen said, trying to keep her tone light and friendly. The girl gazed forlornly at her arms.

“I don’t know what happened,” she whispered. “I- I thought I could do it.”

Jen swallowed back the great swirl of emotions that had come up at the words. “It’s okay,” she said, trying to adopt the tone her mother had always used. Her mother, her endlessly patient mother- she would know what to do here. “It’s okay, look, you just made a few mistakes. They’re easy fixes.”

She bent down and started to work the rope, gradually loosening it until she pulled it off the girl’s arms and coiled it neatly. “See?” She tried for a smile, but it probably looked fairly weak. “Not a problem.”

The girl took the rope again, staring at it. Her teeth raked, probably subconsciously, over her lower lip. She still looked ready to cry, and if she cried she would mark herself as even more of a target. That was the way of the Games, Jen had been quick to figure out. 

This required another step. “Hey,” Jen said. “Want me to teach you an easier knot? It works better, too. My mom taught it to me when I was your age.”

The girl sniffled a little. “Seafarin’ Karen said that the fisherman’s knot was the strongest there was.”

“Seafaring?- oh.” Jen glanced at the muscular woman behind the table. “Well, I don’t know if Seafaring Karen has seen this one much. It’s a secret, that’s what my mom told me.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Really?” she whispered.

“Yeah.” Jen’s fingers reflexively twined around the rope. “Here, watch closely.” She tried to slow her hands as they automatically pushed and tugged at the rope, showing the girl. 

Her eyes were so wide that Jen was sure that they would pop out of their sockets by the time she was done. “Cool,” the girl breathed, taking some rope for herself and trying to copy Jen’s movements. 

Her finished product, which she proudly held out for Jen to see, was a little messy, with some frayed ends, but a respectable knot to be sure. 

“There you go,” Jen said. She couldn’t help but smile at the girl’s ear-to-ear grin. For a moment, it felt like these weren’t their last days before the harrowing experience that was to be the Games. For a moment, it was just them, a twelve-year-old that had accomplished something and an eighteen-year-old praising her, and it was almost normal, or something passing for it. “It looks great. Now you can tie a good knot and just think about all you’ll be able to do with it!”

The moment was shattered just like that, and Jen regretted the words. She didn’t want to think about the traps she might set with this very knot, perhaps entangling another tribute. She didn’t want to think about the arena at all, but the idea that she had just equipped herself with a useful survival skill seemed to please the girl, so that was all right.

“My name’s Jen,” Jen said, because it felt right. So what if creating bonds only led to more pain in the end? Even if nobody else bothered to learn either of their names, Jen would remember this girl for as long as she could. Only the winners were celebrated, only the winners were recalled, and something felt off about that.

“I’m Ripley,” the girl informed her, still looking completely delighted. “My mom said there’s a really funny story behind my name, something to do with an old book, but I don’t remember it now.”

Jen could not stop smiling, though on the inside she screamed for this little girl who had no idea what she was about to get into. Christ, it was easy to forget sometimes that the tributes were kids, just a bunch of kids thrown together in an impossible scenario.

An idea flitted into Jen’s head, and it was a really stupid idea, but it wouldn’t leave. It stayed, growing larger by the minute, ignoring all logic.

“What District are you from?” Jen asked casually, leaning over the table and picking up a stray length of rope. “I’m from Eight, and the air quality’s terrible there but the stars are really pretty when they’re out.”

Of course she remembered the Reapings, and of course she knew Ripley’s District. She wanted to hear it, though, wanted to suck up everything she could about this girl that smiled so much and was endlessly proud of her knots.

“District Eleven,” Ripley said, watching Jen’s hands closely. “There were so many trees for me to climb! I love climbing trees and I used to do it all the time. All my brothers and sisters had tree races, where they saw who could reach the top first, and they let me join last year and they always win but I’m getting faster and better and last time I was so fast that I beat my sister Shelley and came in sixth place and it was super fun.”

It hurt, how earnest Ripley was, how she happily shared pieces of her life with anyone who asked, how she spiraled into anecdotes. It was impossible to ignore how young she was.

“There might be trees in the arena,” Jen said, hoping she sounded encouraging. “You would be good at that. Treetops are good cover, you know.”

Ripley deflated before Jen’s eyes, as if suddenly remembering what this would all lead up to. It was probably a little like when Jen’s mother had told her that her knowledge of stars might help her find her way in the arena. It wasn’t a skill; it was a passion, and having that connected to something as horrible as the Games was rather painful.

Ripley was excitable and bubbly and enthusiastic and so, so, young. It was this, probably, that solidified the idea for Jen, made her accept that it was a bad idea and made her not care.

“Hey, listen,” she said, and Ripley looked up, eyes wide and sad again, knowing now that they were talking about the future and not the past, never the past. Jen knew the feeling. “My mentor says I should make an alliance.”

Ripley didn’t make the connection right away. “An alliance!” she said. “Oh, I didn’t even think about that! I should ask Chaff. It’s probably too late, though.”

“It’s not too late,” Jen assured her. “But, hey. Sounds to me like you’re quick and tough and good in lots of environments that I’m terrible in, because I’ve never exactly been an outdoorsy person. And I have plenty of survival skills, and I know what to eat and what not to eat, and I feel like together we could make a pretty spectacular team.”

There was a world of emotion in Ripley’s eyes. It was so incredible to see, really. She was a girl who wore her heart on her sleeve because she’d never had any reason not to, a girl who knew that she was probably going to die but took the time to remember tree races and talk to people. 

Ripley was a little girl who had just had everything ripped out from under her, and she looked like Jen had just given her everything back and more.

“You mean it?” she breathed. “You want an alliance?” She hesitated for a moment before adding, “With me?”

“Yeah,” Jen said. Seeing Ripley’s face made it no more of a good idea, but it made sure that Jen would never regret it. “Yeah, well, you seem pretty kick-butt to me, and it seems like teamwork is the best way to get through this. What do you say?”

Ripley was beaming again, and bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. “Yes!” she shouted. “Yes, yes! I can’t believe it! You’re so good at stuff and you’re such a good teacher and you showed me how to tie that knot and we’re gonna win, Jen!”

Jen had no doubt that Ripley knew how the Games worked. Every child in Panem did. Ripley knew that it would be impossible for them to both win, she knew that the odds were stacked up high against either of them lasting long. But they would both choose to ignore it, just for a little bit.

“Will you show me how to do the knot again?” Ripley asked, eyes shining with excitement, and Jen bent over to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeerree's Ripley! It just gets more fun from here!  
> By the way, for anyone who read the summary thing up on roanoke-cabin's tumblr page, which is . . . most of you, probably, I won't necessarily follow that to the letter. It's acting as a baseline for me, and nothing else. There are already like three things I can think of that I'm not going to follow.


	5. Watching Paint Dry Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Camouflage is extremely important in most matters of adventure. Concealment and stealth are useful skills to have, and are always rewarding. A true Lumberjane can disguise herself properly if need be._

After Ripley had more or less mastered Jen’s knot, they headed to the camouflage station, where a woman with a large pink tattoo was teaching two other girls how to paint a pattern of leaves onto their skin.

“She looks kind of busy,” Ripley whispered. “Maybe we should come back later.”

Jen glanced towards the weapons station. She had no desire to go back to listening to Mr. Manly Man insult her stance, family, and existence. “I bet it’s okay. Here, try to do what they’re doing.” She grabbed a tube of brown paint and shoved it into Ripley’s hand.

It wasn’t long before they’d attracted the attention of both the trainer and the other tributes, who were watching with barely-hidden amusement as Ripley smeared paint across her face. Jen was trying to paint leaves up her arms, but they were turning out pretty lopsided and she didn’t think she was getting the shading quite right. 

“Jen, look,” Ripley called. “I’m camouflaged!”

Jen muffled a giggle with her fingertips. “You have paint literally all over you.”

Ripley threw her arms wide, narrowly missing the tree that was there for comparison. “It’s strategic paint, Jen! Strategy is important at times like these!”

Jen was full-on laughing at this point, and the other tributes were too. “Can’t argue there. Maybe that’ll work if you cover yourself in dead leaves.” There was no promising that there would be dead leaves in the arena, or anything to hide near, really. There was no promising anything.

Their trainer actually had some dead leaves, which Ripley happily scattered across her hair. She could pass for a pile of leaves if absolutely necessary, but Jen was kind of hoping that it wouldn’t come to that. 

“Looking good,” called one of the other girls, flashing Ripley a thumbs-up, which she returned with vigor. The other girls looked older than Ripley but still not very old, especially the redhead, who was pretty short. They had been talking quietly before Jen and Ripley had showed up, and they probably had made an alliance. It was an interesting thought, to be sure. They looked like something resembling friends- certainly an odd sight amidst the inescapable rivalries of the arena.

Jen’s ponderings were cut off by a strangled yell from Ripley. Without thinking, she rushed to Ripley’s side. 

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Ripley said, sounding slightly sheepish. “I just, um, got sap in my hair.”

Jen could see it- a monster glob of sap clumping Ripley’s bangs together. Her stylists were going to freak out. “Do you know how to get it out?” She was from District Eleven, after all. Surely she was better equipped to deal with that kind of thing than Jen.

“Um,” Ripley’s face screwed up in concentration. “I think we gotta cut it out.”

Jen glanced over to the woman with the tattoo, who nodded slowly. “She’s right. Sap is close to impossible to get out.”

Jen took a deep breath. If Ripley’s stylists let either one of them live to the Games, it would be a miracle. “Okay,” she said, “uh, I think I can find a pocketknife somewhere. Unless there are scissors?” She shot a hopeful glance towards the trainer, who shook her head. “Well, let me go get the smallest knife I can find.” 

She returned minutes later with a dagger and a new plethora of dirty looks, courtesy of the weapons trainer. 

It took a minute to work the sap out, taking with it a decent chunk of Ripley’s hair, and Jen cringed. She probably should have left it to Ripley’s stylists. It looked pretty awful.

“Huh,” Jen said. “Okay, well, it . . . doesn’t look great.”

Ripley looked upset at this news, so Jen hurriedly backtracked. “I mean, it looks okay, still, and your stylists can fix you right up, I’m sure, and . . .” she trailed off. 

“Hey,” one of the girls from across the table said, “need help?”

The other girl, the taller one, frowned at this. “April . . .” she muttered, but the first one, April, waved her off. 

“I can help you with your hair, if you want. I’m pretty good at that sort of thing.”

Ripley glanced up at Jen, who shrugged. It couldn’t hurt, really, and April sounded genuine, but one could never tell. 

“Okay!” Ripley said, all enthusiasm returned. “Jen, let her use the knife.”

“I’ve got scissors,” April quickly assured Jen. “I like to be prepared. Okay, uh . . . what’s your name?”

“Ripley!” Ripley practically shouted. “And that’s Jen over there.”

A smile tugged at the corners of April’s mouth. “Nice to meet you. Let’s see what we can do about your hair.”

In the end, April cut it until it was just hanging past Ripley’s chin. Jen had to admit that April was skilled- Ripley looked good, and somehow even more youthful and innocent, although that could’ve been the wide grin stretched across her face. 

“There!” April proclaimed. “What do you think, should we add a special little touch?”

Ripley’s eyes widened. “Like what?”

“Like this!” April grabbed a handful of berries from the table. “Blue or purple?”

Ripley eyed her warily. “What are you gonna do with them?”

“Ever dyed your hair before?” April asked teasingly. “It’ll look super good, I promise.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jen interjected. “You’re turning her hair a different color? Can you even do that?” Sure, she’d seen the Capitol citizens with their obnoxiously bright hair, but she had no idea that it was done with berries. That sort of thing just never happened in the Districts.

“Yeah,” April said. “It’s really easy. We do it back in Four all the time. You cool with this, Ripley?”

Ripley nodded. “I want blue!” she declared.

It was kind of a messy process, but April clearly knew what she was doing, so Jen let her. In the end, both Ripley’s bangs and April’s hands were a striking blue, the exact same shade as the berries.

And, of course, Ripley was ecstatic. Jen couldn’t keep the fond smile from her face as Ripley hopped up and down, grasping the chunk of hair. 

“Jen, look! Look!” Ripley insisted, shoving her head forward to give Jen a better view.

“I see,” Jen said. “You’re staining your hand.”

Ripley ignored her, instead choosing to flop her head every which way so she could see her freshly-colored hair. 

Jen couldn’t deny that it made her slightly nervous, how the girls were watching them. April had been helpful, and Ripley clearly loved her hair, but this was the Hunger Games. Jen’s job was to keep Ripley safe, and she didn’t know how to do that under such close scrutiny.

She settled on gently steering Ripley away, mumbling a thanks over her shoulder at April. They’d spent far too much time at the camouflage station, after all. It would be smarter to move to ensuring that Ripley knew her poisonous plants and berries.

Still, she couldn’t help but glance back, every once in a while, at the two girls that had seemed so open and were, again, so young.

-

Jen rolled over at the knock, debating about pretending she wasn’t in. She knew it was Arch, here to ask again about an alliance, and she honestly thought that she might never have the energy to talk to him again. No use telling him that Rosie said it wasn’t a good idea, despite it being true, as he was sure to find out about Ripley eventually. 

Still, she didn’t really want to avoid him forever, and she definitely didn’t want to be rude, so she dragged herself off the bed and swung the door open, hoping she didn’t look as grumpy as she felt.

“Jen!” Ripley said cheerfully. “Guess what?”

It took Jen only a moment to adjust to this surprise, and a smile came readily to her face. “You snuck out of your floor?” she asked teasingly.

“Nope!” Ripley said. “It’s allowed! I asked Woof and he said okay, it just doesn’t happen much so people don’t talk about it. He said to make sure I wasn’t bothering you, though. Oh!” Ripley’s expression switched to one of worry. “Am I bothering you?”

“Of course not,” Jen said. “I hate being alone with my thoughts.” Okay, not entirely true, but the company was more than welcome, and the blinding smile had returned to Ripley’s face.

“Is your room as cool as mine?” Ripley asked, bounding past Jen. “Whoa, it’s even cooler!”

Jen would have put money on all the rooms being exactly the same, but she played along. “I bet your room is cool, too. The Capitol has done a good job of making us feel welcome.” She would’ve put money on the rooms being bugged, too. 

“Yeah!” Ripley said, excitedly examining everything. “Anyway, our cool rooms aside, that’s not the reason I came. This is a business meeting.”

Her expression became serious in an instant, and Jen patted the bed beside her. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get down to business, then.”

Ripley took the offered seat without hesitation, pulling her legs up to her chest. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Woof says I need a strategy. Do you have a strategy, Jen?”

Jen glanced over at the crisp notepad on her bedside table. No, she didn’t have a strategy. Just pages and pages of useless notes. “Sort of,” she admitted. “Any ideas?”

Ripley stared at the polished floor. “Not really. I wasn’t gonna go to the Cornucopia and I was gonna try to be cute and innocent and get sponsors.”

“Good idea,” Jen encouraged. “We can make the people of the Capitol like us. You’re an awfully likeable person. And we definitely should head as far away from the Cornucopia as possible, and find some good cover. Being found is a big concern of ours. We don’t have a lot of fighting skills.”

“Mm-hmm,” Ripley said. “Cover and survival. But we know that! Are we gonna tell people ‘bout our alliance?”

Jen hesitated. It was a good question, to be sure, and she could see the advantages of both options. “Some people already know,” she said, thinking of April and the other girl. “But other than that, we should try to keep it on the down-low.”

“Right,” Ripley said softly. “I can do that.”

Jen smiled. “I know you can.” On an instinct, she reached over to ruffle Ripley’s hair. 

“I was wondering,” Ripley said, still in her quiet, pensive voice. “I mean- I’ve been thinking about those girls at the camouflage station. Do you remember them?”

Red hair and big eyes popped, unbidden, into Jen’s mind. “I believe I do. What about them?”

Ripley crossed and uncrossed her legs. “How old do you think they were?”

Jen got the horrible feeling that she knew where Ripley was going with this. She pursed her lips and answered carefully. “It’s difficult to say. Between thirteen and fifteen, I think.”

“Oh,” Ripley said. “They were nice. Especially April.”

“Yeah,” Jen said slowly. “Yeah, they were.”

“Do you think they’re in an alliance?”

Jen considered the question. “Probably. It seemed like it, didn’t it?”

Ripley nodded, still keeping her gaze toward the floor. “They looked like they were friends.”

Jen bit her lip. They had seemed rather friendly, but it just didn’t seem likely. People weren’t friends in the Hunger Games; they were tentative allies at best. But she and Ripley were different, so it was possible that the girls were different too.

“They may have been friends,” Jen conceded. “But Ripley, just because they seemed friendly to each other doesn’t mean that they were friends, okay? This is a very different environment than you or I am used to. We need to tread carefully and not make assumptions.”

Ripley nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. 

“Hey,” Jen said, scooting forward and draping an arm around Ripley’s shoulders. “I know this is really hard, but you’ve got me. Remember that.”

Ripley nodded. “What if they’re like us, Jen?” she said, voice so quiet Jen had to strain to hear. “What if they’re just scared and confused tributes who want to go home? What if they really are friends because they don’t want to die alone?”

Jen blinked back tears. There was nothing quite so heartbreaking as a perceptive twelve-year-old, she had to admit. 

“They could be like us,” Jen said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. “We just don’t know, and we’re playing it safe.”

“Don’t be sad, Jen,” Ripley whispered, burrowing into Jen’s side. “I don’t want you to be sad.”

“I’m not sad,” Jen lied. “Maybe tomorrow we can talk to the girls. They did seem nice, didn’t they?”

Ripley nodded. “Yeah,” she whispered, voice slightly hoarse. “Yeah. Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

She got up to leave, but Jen caught her wrist. Wordlessly, Ripley fell back into Jen’s arms, sobs crawling from her throat. Jen held her, eyes squeezed shut, and wondered why the world wanted to hurt a girl like Ripley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe


	6. The Planning A-head Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The ability to create logical plans in stressful situations is one that has any number of uses. A good Lumberjane can keep her head and come up with the perfect plan for any moment._

“Jillian, we need to talk.”

Jen pivoted on one foot, plastering a smile on her face. “Hi, Rosie.”

Rosie looked unimpressed. “I heard you made an alliance after I specifically told you not to make an alliance. That true?”

Jen decided that, in this position, beating around the bush was unwise. “Yes.”

Rosie groaned, running a hand through her hair. “And, correct me if I’m wrong, this alliance is with a twelve-year-old?”

“You aren’t wrong,” Jen said. She’d been mentally preparing for this inevitable talk since she’d first proposed the alliance to Ripley. The best she could do was keep calm and make it clear to Rosie that she wasn’t going to change her mind.

“For the love of God, Jasmine!” Rosie exploded. “What were you thinking? That’s suicide, plain and simple. Don’t you want to go home?”

Jen flinched. “Of course I want to go back home,” she said, struggling to keep her voice level. “But I know I’m not going to, and Ripley’s sweet and innocent and really fun. I want to spend the Games with her. I want a bit of a purpose. I want to try to get her home! I know you don’t think it’s smart, but Ripley can help me. She’s quick and good at climbing trees and hiding places. She’s a useful ally!”

It took a lot of willpower not to cower under Rosie’s fierce gaze, but Jen managed it.

“I don’t think you understand how the Games work,” Rosie said. “That’s not how alliances are. You don’t make alliances because you feel sorry for someone, or because you think they’re fun to be around. You’re going to be killed in the first ten minutes.”

“Maybe I will,” Jen said. “But I was going to anyway. Admit it. You never thought I had a chance. And I’m going to do this my way, even if it means dying. She’s scared and vulnerable and in an unfamiliar place, and I’m trying to make that more bearable for her.”

Rosie was silent for a long time. 

“Fine,” she said. “I can accept that you’re a lost cause. Now go, get out of my sight. You don’t want to be late for training.”

Jen hesitated in the doorway. Rosie was staring at her cold cup of coffee. Normally, Rosie looked fierce and terrifying. Now, she just looked tired, and suddenly Jen imagined winning the Games, only to return year after year to watch overconfident kids get killed.

“I’m sorry,” Jen said quietly. “I know that you know best. But Ripley needs me, and I need her, too.”

She slipped out of the room and into the elevator before Rosie had time to respond.

-

Ripley was already talking to April and the other girl (Jen couldn’t believe that she still didn’t know her name) when Jen entered the Training Center, and it looked like it was going well. April was smiling, at least, and Ripley was her regular excited self. 

Ripley spotted her within seconds and dragged her over to the others. “Come on!” she whined, thin fingers wrapped tight around Jen’s wrist. “They’re super cool, Jen.”

Quietly hoping that Ripley wouldn’t try to make friends with all the tributes, Jen let herself be pulled until she came face-to-face with April and her friend- no, ally.

“Hi again,” April said, smile wide as she reached out to shake Jen’s hand. “I know you know me, but this is Jo. Say hi, Jo.”

“Hi, Jo,” the taller girl said, a smile breaking over her face. It was like a confirmation of sorts, recognition that they were in a stressful time, but humor was allowed.

Jen nodded, allowing Jo a small smile of her own. 

“So!” Ripley clapped her hands together. “Are you guys in an alliance?”

April and Jo exchanged a look. “Yeah,” April said. “Wanna join?” 

Jen blinked, taken aback by the frankness of the statement. A million scenarios ran through her head, a long train of disasters. Waking up to find Ripley with a slit throat. April and Jo taking all the weapons and food and leaving. Even the ones that wouldn’t be their fault (the Careers spotting one of them, too much noise was made, someone started a fire and Jen wasn’t around to warn them not to) were terrifying prospects.

But then she saw their faces displayed across the night sky, and she couldn’t repress a shudder. They were young, probably no older than fifteen. They were kids, and they didn’t want this any more than Jen or Ripley did. 

“It’s okay if you don’t,” April said quickly. “It’s just that we’re good at fighting and Jo can make a snare out of anything, but we have no survival skills, and I don’t know, maybe it could work?”

Jen glanced down at Ripley, whose eyes were wide. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking, whether she delighted in the idea of more friends or whether she too was scared of what might happen. 

“Can we have a minute to discuss?” she asked, trying to convey friendliness through her tone, and Jo nodded.

Ripley pulled her away. “What do you think, Jen?”

Jen chewed her lower lip. She had no idea what she thought. “Let’s hear what you think first.”

Ripley looked at her shoes. “I don’t know. April and Jo are really nice and they helped me with my hair and they didn’t have to do that, Jen, and they’re like us, I think. I like them.”

Once you liked someone in the Games, you knew you were in trouble. Jen couldn’t imagine finding out that April and Jo had been killed. 

“I think you’re right,” Jen said. “I think- I think maybe we should go for it. More support is never a bad thing, right?” Judging by the smile that spread across Ripley’s face, she thought so.

They returned to Jo and April, who had been talking quietly. They looked up when Jen and Ripley arrived, and it was impossible to miss the worry on their faces.

They were scared. They were scared of what might happen.

“We’re gonna join your alliance!” Ripley said immediately, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. “Jen said yes, and we’re gonna join!”

Nobody could have faked the excitement that shone through April and Jo’s faces, and Jen found herself biting down hard on her lip to keep it from twitching upward. This was good. It was the right decision. 

“That’s terrific!” April said, and Jen had once heard that no one ever meant anything in the Games, but she was finding that difficult to believe. 

Jo high-fived Ripley, who looked more excited than Jen had ever seen her. “All right!” Jo said. “We’ll be an unstoppable team. We should talk strategy, but right now I think we’ve got some training to do.”

Jen spent the rest of the day making mental notes. April was insanely strong and could easily pick up Jo and Ripley at the same time. She was also from District Four, so she had a natural affinity with nets and rope. Jo had a technical mind, crafting small machines from random objects, which could be useful if they needed a very specific plan. 

She hoped they would never have to use those skills, but she knew that was naïve. It was the Hunger Games. They needed all the skill they had. 

Nobody was well-trained in weapons, although April had attended a sort of Career Academy thing for a year prior to her Reaping. Jen had the most survival skills, but the girls were good at remembering what they were told. Ripley could scamper up trees faster than Jen had ever believed possible, and knew how to make food from various plants. 

And all of them were fearless. Not to the point of being overconfident, of course, but they were willing to fight, and fight hard. There seemed to be nothing they couldn’t do, if they wanted to enough.

Jen went back to Floor Eight feeling optimistic for the first time since her Reaping. She’d found herself a terrific alliance, and she didn’t care what Rosie said. They could survive. They had to.

Naturally, Arch was waiting for her in the hallway.

Jen had to take a moment to prepare. She’d known this was coming, there was nothing she could do about it, and she couldn’t have avoided giving him an answer.

He spotted her and made his way over. He didn’t look like he’d been sleeping well, despite how much he’d talked about the wonder of their rooms. For the first time in his life, the world was not being kind to Arch Nession. 

“Hey,” he said, and his voice lacked the softness usually just below the surface. “Did you ask Rosie about the alliance?”

She hesitated, but she couldn’t lie. “Yeah, I did.”

He brightened immediately, like he was sure of the answer. “So, what did she say?”

“She said no,” Jen said. It was the truth, after all. “She said it was a terrible idea.”

The smile slipped from his face. “Oh. Okay. Thanks for asking, I guess.”

She sucked on the insides of her cheeks as she watched him go, not tearing her eyes off him until the door to his room clicked shut. 

The good feeling had evaporated, leaving her with a mess of emotion in the pit of her stomach- mostly guilt, with a dash of nerves here and there. Who was she kidding? Only one person could win the Games, and it wasn’t going to be any of them. 

She spent what felt like ages in the shower, and fell at once into a restless, dreamless sleep.

-

“Okay,” Jo said. “Strategy. Let’s hear it.”

“Ooh!” Ripley raised her hand. “I’m supposed to act cute and innocent.”

“Good,” April said. “Shouldn’t be hard. Are we going to tell people that we’re allies?”

Jen scratched the back of her neck. “I don’t see why we should. They might try to separate us in the arena or something. These people are unpredictable.”

April nodded. “All right then. My dad told me that if I ever got reaped for the Games, I should make myself as memorable as possible. Give the Capitolites a good story, one they can’t resist.”

“That’s smart,” Jen said. “We’ll figure out a story later.” Later, later- everything was later. Train first, survive first, strategy later, if later ever came.

“I think maybe we should tell people we’re allies,” Jo said. “It’s a story, right? We can spin it whatever way we want, and people might like it enough that they’ll actively try to keep us alive because they couldn’t bear to see one of us die. It’s happened before,” she added, almost defensively. “My dads told me.” 

Jen tilted her head. She imagined the story, spun rich across Capitol headlines. A four-person alliance that was not for survival, but for friendship. Surely, surely the Capitol wasn’t so alien that they couldn’t appreciate that.

“They’ll never remember us,” April said in a matter-of-fact tone that didn’t at all fit her words. “They’ll see the interviews, they’ll think about the Careers and maybe one or two other people that are special or made an impact or something. We’re a bunch of nobodys without extraordinary skills. We need the alliance to be public knowledge or else we’ll fade into the shadows and never get any sponsors.”

Jen’s eyebrows shot up. It was a fantastic point, she had to admit. She didn’t like to think that she wasn’t memorable enough to win the favor of the Capitol, but she knew that it was true. It was entirely possible that, even with the alliance, they wouldn’t be interesting enough to bet on. 

“Yeah!” Ripley said. “Yeah, that makes sense. Jen?”

And they were all looking at her, three expectant children. She was to make the final decision, because they trusted her and they thought she knew best. 

She swallowed down the anxiety. She would not make the wrong decision. Everything would be okay.

“It makes sense,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just slowly adding the people you love into the plot to keep you interested. It's my evil plan.


	7. The Sar-chasm Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sarcasm is one of the finer points of humor, and often can be used to get a point across, or simply to let someone know exactly what you think of their reasoning._

She twisted the knob until freezing water pounded down on her bare back, and she let her eyes close. It was almost like the showers lining the factories, demanding coins for the chance to see muck and oil slip down the drain. If she ignored the flowery scent of Capitol soaps, it felt a little like home, and wasn’t that all she asked for?

Ripley was coming later, likely with April and Jo in tow. She had to be prepared and strong and ready to fill pages with strategy and story. Now might be her only chance to be afraid.

She fell, folding in on herself, wrapping her head in her arms and trying to steady her breathing. She had to pull herself together. Her girls were counting on her. They needed someone stable, calm, and in charge in the Games. She had to be that person, because nobody else would.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, rocking slightly on the slick floor and letting the water run down her body. If she cried, she wouldn’t have been able to tell, and all evidence of it drained away, out of sight and mind. Her sobs were muffled by the pounding of water, and everything was going to be okay, perfectly okay, it had to be. 

When she heard the knock at the door, she drew herself unsteadily to her feet. She breathed deep, letting the perfumes settle in her nose, and called in an unwavering voice, “Let yourselves in, I’ll be out in a sec.”

The muted chatter of April, Jo and Ripley calmed her as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. She was okay, they were okay, everything was okay. She splashed water across her face, blinking it out of her eyes, and pulled on the pajamas that smelled so wrong and seemed so Capitol.

The girls had taken over her bed by the time she came out, already in deep discussion. Jen sat across from them, twisting her legs into a pretzel and gripping her feet.

“Jen!” Ripley called, bouncing up and down slightly. “Jen, look what we’ve got so far.”

Jo handed over the notebook, and Jen scanned the page of neat script. Somehow, the girls had formulated a backstory- a heart-wrenching tale that was definitely not one hundred percent true.

“Okay,” Ripley said in a tone of great importance. “Here’s my bit. My name’s Ripley, and I grew up with a bunch of brothers and sisters and-,"

“Sadder!” Jo hissed through her teeth, and Ripley took a moment to school her face into a perfectly soulful gaze. 

“I got Reaped for the Games,” Ripley continued, the picture of wide-eyed innocence, “and I was really scared, because I was all alone, and I’ve never been all alone before. And I was sort of watching Jen, because she reminds me a lot of my big sister, and I felt safe around her. And then she asked me to join an alliance with her, and I was so excited because I’m not alone anymore.” She broke into a smile at the end, eyes shining. “How was that?”

“Great,” Jen said. “I want to shower you with money and food.”

April laughed. “That was fabulous, Ripley. Really pulled on the old heartstrings. Hey Jen, do you have a little sibling?”

Jen shook her head. “I’m an only child. We could maybe pretend, though.”

“They interview your family if you make it to the final eight,” Jo said. “If we lie about that, we’ll lose credibility. The best part about our story so far is that it’s true, just embellished a bit. Ripley does have a bunch of older brothers and sisters.”

“And you’re like the biggest!” Ripley said. “That’s true too. Jo says we should try to build off our life stories, because that makes us seem more human to the audience, and they’ll like us more. I have lots of siblings and my mom and dad work in the orchards.”

“I just have my mom,” Jen said. “I’ll talk about how I hope she’s proud of me, and how I think this alliance is what she would do.”

“Good,” April said. “We’ve got a story from Jo about her dads basically telling her to make an alliance- show them the gear, Jo.”

Jo pulled a small silver object from her pocket and held it out. It fit perfectly in her palm, and Jen couldn’t help but smile. It was thinner and cleaner than the ones in the factories back home, but it was still something familiar, and she found herself wishing, not for the first time, that she’d brought a token. 

“And my dad used to tell me that I could do anything with friends,” April finished. “Really, it seems kind of perfect. The Capitol will love it. They’ll eat it right from our hands.”

Jen had to admit that it was a good story, and certainly a believable one. She was glad that Jo and April knew so much about the intricacies of the Games. She never would have thought to talk about her mom otherwise. 

“Do any of the rest of you have tokens?” she asked, more out of curiosity than anything. She hadn’t even thought about it as she’d boarded the train to the Capitol. What sorts of things did people bring into the arena? What sorts of things did kids clutch to their chests as they breathed their last?

“I have Mr. Sparkles,” Ripley said. “Chaff says he might be too big, but I like having him here anyway.”

“Who’s Mr. Sparkles?” April asked, and Ripley smiled widely.

“He’s my unicorn,” she said. “All of my siblings had him when they were babies, and now he’s mine. He’s a little tattered, but I love him.”

“Ripley,” Jo said, tone low and serious. “We’re going to get that unicorn into the arena with you.”

Ripley giggled. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll bring Mr. Sparkles then.”

“I have a bracelet,” April said. “It was my mom’s and I haven’t taken it off since I was nine.”

“I don’t have anything,” Jen said. “I didn’t know we could bring something.” She bit her lip. She hadn’t brought anything. She had nothing to remind her of her mother. She desperately grasped for anything resembling home. “Can we see Mr. Sparkles at some point tomorrow, Ripley?”

Ripley nodded. “He’s in my room. I’ll bring him to training and you can meet him.”

“All right,” April said. “So we’re heartbreakingly cute for the Capitol, we gain tons of sponsors, then what?”

“We hide,” Jen said. She’d given this a lot of thought, and it was their only option, really. Her girls might be good fighters, but they couldn’t go up against Careers. “We run as far away from the Cornucopia as possible and then we hide as long as we can and if we’re found we fight like crazy. We should learn how to make weapons out of rocks and sticks and stuff, because there’s no way we’re going to the Cornucopia at any point.”

“There might be a lesson on that,” April said, stretching out so her arms dangled off the side of the bed. “And I think we can avoid the Careers. We’ll get mediocre training scores, we’ll make them think we aren’t a threat. Hopefully, they’ll start killing each other off before they find us. My district partner joined them,” she added, just a trace of acid in her voice. “He told me that he’d try to avoid killing me, but if he couldn’t, nothing personal.”

“I cannot think of a single thing more personal than being directly responsible for a person’s death,” Jo said, “but it’s nice to know that we have one Career not actively seeking our blood. Do you think he could convince the others to leave us alone?”

April snorted into the bedspread. “Not likely. He doesn’t like me that much, guys. He just kind of pities me and may have met my dad once or twice.”

“We need to use pity to our advantage,” Jo said. “Let people underestimate us. Let them go easy on us. It’ll be good for us.”

“And then,” April said, “we crush them.”

Jo chuckled, leaning back against the wall. “Yeah, sure,” she said. “We’ll crush them.”

-

The next morning, there was an intensive training schedule, and Jen saw the desperation. She saw it in the tight faces of three little girls who now had someone to live for. Fight for. Die for.

Each swing of the sword was a lesson. She had been told that she was hopeless, that she could never learn a weapon. That she would be the first cannon, or the last, but it was all the same, really. 

She drew a vindictive pride in that. Her form was okay. She was good at remembering things. Mimicking them. Trying over and over again until she got something right, perfectionist that she was.

Still, she drew more pride from her girls. The way April hefted her sword like it was nothing, the way Jo concealed a dagger perfectly in the folds of her clothing until she pulled it out and whipped it in carefully planned moves, the way Ripley threw herself into the fight with strategic gusto. 

Sprawled over the weapons rack was Mr. Sparkles, the raggedy pink unicorn with stuffing spilling from his stomach. There was an interesting kind of irony in the sight, the stark contrast between the stuffed animal and the weapons he guarded. It hurt to see, but not so much anymore. The youthfulness of these killers-in-training had long since faded to a dull throb, always there. 

“How am I doing?” Ripley panted, letting her arms drop, sword dangling from one sweat-soaked hand. 

“You’re doing great,” Jen said. “Hey, do you want a lighter weapon? We could find you one.”

Ripley lifted her chin. Her blue-stained hair fell backwards in choppy waves. “No.”

Jen smiled. “Well, keep it up. You’ll take the Capitol by storm.”

Ripley’s gaze held a strange mixture of excitement and pride. She liked the idea, Jen could tell. It was like what they’d discussed the previous night- building off of underestimation to create an amazing show for those who demanded it.

But then Ripley looked away, eyes widening. “Mr. Sparkles!” she blurted and Jen’s gaze shot to the weapons rack, devoid of its guardian.

“Oh, crap,” she muttered, scanning the room. She spotted a flash of pink and set down her sword, taking long strides to the two Career boys flaunting Ripley’s token above their heads.

So it wasn’t enough to kill kids. They had to take away their hope, too. They had to take away the last piece they had of home. 

“Excuse me,” came a voice, as ice-cold as it was polite. “I don’t believe that belongs to you.”

Jen’s savior came in the form of a girl- probably not older than fifteen, but pretty tall, so it was hard to tell. She had a long blonde braid down her back, her clothes were smeared with soot, and it was clear from the look on her face that she was not messing around.

“Really,” the girl continued, “it seems a little pathetic, to be honest. Taking a twelve-year-old’s stuffed unicorn? Oh yes, that’ll definitely make you seem like the ultimate tribute. We should all be trembling right now. Back away, Mal,” she added to a second girl, coming up behind her. “You’re in the presence of a toy-stealer. I hear they’re horrifically vicious.”

The second girl- Mal- grinned. “I’m shaking from head to toe. I’m about to wet myself, honestly.”

The boys’ confusion quickly gave way to anger. “Listen here,” he began, raising a threatening fist.

“We’re listening,” the first girl said, still in the unfailingly polite tone. “You don’t seem to have much useful to say, is all. Are you about to explain why your masculinity is so fragile that you feel the need to reinforce it by stealing a stuffed animal?”

“Oh, please do,” the Mal begged, clasping her hands together under her chin. “I’d love to hear it.”

With a roar, one of the boys swung at the two girls, who darted a few feet away. 

“No fighting,” the Mal admonished, waggling a finger at him. “Wouldn’t want to invoke the wrath of the Gamemakers, would you?”

“Sure he would,” the first girl said dismissively. “He can take them. After all, after stealing a toy, how hard could it be?”

“Oh,” Mal said. “I forgot that Mr. Muscle here is the epitome of all warriors. Do forgive me.”

Both boys were starting to turn purple in the face. “You’ll be the first to die, come the Games!” one of them roared, but the girls looked unimpressed.

“Right,” the first girl said with a patient grin. “Because I’m not strong enough or smart enough to steal a stuffed toy.”

While the boys were glaring at the first girl, Mal stood on her tiptoes and tugged Mr. Sparkles out of the boy’s hand. 

“Look, Molly,” she said. “I got myself a toy. Am I going to win the Games, now?”

“Holy smokes,” Molly said, gripping her head in over exaggerated wonder. “You’re going to win the Games.”

And with that, both girls walked calmly over to Ripley, Jo and April.

Jen hurried over, incredulous. Never had she heard so much sarcasm in one conversation. 

“This yours?” Mal asked, holding out Mr. Sparkles. Ripley grabbed him and hugged him tight.

“Whoa,” she said, eyes shining. “That was cool.”

Molly laughed, sounding a little surprised. “Most people don’t like it when holes are poked in their amazing reasoning.”

“What do you say?” Jen asked, almost on autopilot, and Ripley bounced up and down.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she gushed.

“You’re welcome,” Mal said. “Enjoy your kickass unicorn.”

And they were gone, leaving Jen, Ripley, April and Jo with the same question brimming in their eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the party's really getting started! (I had so much fun writing this scene. Can you tell?)


	8. The Rock and a Hard Place Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lumberjanes often will face difficult choices in life. Part of a Lumberjane's training is how to skillfully make the best decision possible and explain her reasoning to naysayers._

“An alliance?” Mal drummed her fingers against the table. “With all of you?”

Jen and Jo exchanged a glance. “Well, yeah,” Jo said. “All of us. Better chances, right? Four less people trying to kill you?”

“Yes,” Molly said without missing a beat. “Yes. I want to join.” 

“Are you guys in an alliance?” April asked, waving at Mal and Molly.

“Nope,” Mal said. “Not officially. I mean, we joked about dumb costumes the first day, so we know each other, but . . .”

“Come on, Mal,” Molly wheedled. “Imagine all the support.”

Mal exhaled slowly. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” Jo said. “I mean, it’s just a proposal. Take all the time you need.”

“You just met us, though,” Mal argued.

“That’s all we needed!” Ripley jumped in. “You guys were super awesome and you helped me get Mr. Sparkles back. You’re nice.”

Molly grinned. “Yeah, Mal. We’re nice. We deserve this.”

Mal puffed up her cheeks. “I’ll think about it. I’ll have an answer by tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Jen said. There was no need to rush, after all. If Mal was being cautious about this, that was fine. It was good to know that she hesitated before jumping into the fray. A good quality to have, and one that only Jen seemed to possess. “I’ve got one question, though.”

Mal shoved her hands in her pockets. “Shoot.”

 

Jen twisted her hands together. “What is up with your hair?” She realized too late how it sounded, and quickly backtracked. “I’m sorry, that sounded so rude. I’ve never seen a hairstyle like that before.”

Mal automatically ran a hand through her hair. “Oh, it’s all the rage back in Nine. A half-shaved head can’t be beat, right? We had a victor like, ten years back that had this exact style, and it inspired a fad in the Capitol, but it died down before long.”

“Okay,” Jen said, slightly embarrassed by the question. By now she should have figured out that different Districts had different styles. “Well- think about it. Our offer will remain open.”

“Do it,” Molly stage-whispered. “Come on.”

Mal rolled her eyes, but there was a grudging smile on her face. “I’ll think about it,” she said again, and she walked over to the poisonous plants section.

Molly smiled, a bit flushed. “It’s a really nice offer. Mal’s just worried.”

“We can see why,” April said. “We know how it looks, but we’re not planning on tricking anyone. This isn’t like a Career alliance.”

“I know,” Molly said. “I think she does too, but she’s really anxious about the whole thing. She’s scared of making the wrong decision. Give her time.”

Time, Jen thought, was one thing they didn’t have. Aloud, she said, “She can have all the time she needs.”

-

Ripley was thrilled by the new addition to their alliance. She’d spent the past eleven minutes talking rapidly to Molly and asking a million questions. Molly didn’t seem to mind, however. 

“Our strategy,” Ripley said, “is to connect our homes with the alliance and make us seem more human to the Capitol. Like, Jen reminds me of my big sister, and Jo’s dads told her to make an alliance. What about you?”

Molly looked a bit taken aback at this. “Oh- um, I don’t know.”

“Nothing?” Ripley said. “What did your parents tell you before the Games?”

Molly shrugged, looking like a deer in the headlights. “Just normal stuff. Nothing about an alliance or anything.”

“Okay!” Ripley said brightly. “We’ll make something up, then.”

Molly sagged, looking strangely relieved. “Okay. We’ll make something up.”

“Come on!” Ripley took Molly’s hand and tugged her forward. “How good are you at recognizing poison plants?”

Molly straightened a little. “Pretty good, I think.”

“Thank goodness,” Jen said, lengthening her strides to catch up with the pair. “I’m the only one here who knows anything about survival. Good to have someone else who doesn’t think nightlock is edible.”

Molly laughed, sounding a little surprised. “Seriously?”

“Jen loves us anyway!” Ripley called, and Jen rolled her eyes affectionately.

“I do, against my better judgment,” she muttered, and Ripley’s grin stretched from ear to ear.

-

Mal caught up with them before day’s end, staring at her shoes like they would provide answers for her, but her voice didn’t shake as she announced that she’d decided, and her eyes were steady and strong as she looked up.

And then there were six, and Ripley threw her arms around Mal’s shoulders like they’d known each other for a lifetime, and Molly whispered, “I knew you’d come.”

“How could I not?” Mal said. “I realized I was being tremendously stupid and I would regret it for the rest of my life if I said no.”

“Welcome to the team,” Jo said, clapping a hand onto Mal’s shoulder, and that’s what they were; an indescribably wonderful team.

It was lonely in Jen’s room that night, but she knew they all needed sleep and the strategizing would be the death of them. She dreamed of blood and cannons, and when she woke up she brushed her teeth for ten minutes, staring her reflection down.

-

“Jessica,” Rosie said, voice sharp and cold as an icicle. “This has gone far enough.”

Jen swirled a fork through her oatmeal, feeling spectacularly full. She carefully drew miniscule ridges and valleys, sprinkled with brown sugar, and pretended that she couldn’t hear her ticked-off mentor.

Rosie continued, ignoring Jen’s lack of response. “Word has reached me that you’ve made an alliance with five girls, none older than fourteen, none with any extraordinary skills. Tell me, Judith, do you want to die?”

Arch, who had been attempting to look invisible, snapped to attention. “Wait, what?”

“This doesn’t concern you, Arch,” Rosie said with a dismissive wave of the hand, and Jen scowled.

Arch shot her a disbelieving glance, and Jen added him to the list of people that she would avoid talking to for as long as she could. He’d already been on that list, but it couldn’t hurt to underline his name several times.

“Look,” she said, setting down her fork. “We’ve already had this conversation.”

“No, we haven’t,” Arch muttered, and she sighed.

“That was when you had one ally,” Rosie reminded her. “Five is more than the Career pack normally has!”

“Would you be so opposed if I’d joined the Career pack?” Jen asked, entirely unsure where the confidence came from.

“Yes!” Rosie snapped. “Because you’re weak and they’d kill you first! Alliances are a bad idea! I told you that!”

“Well,” Jen said, “I’m not going to be killed first in this alliance, so what’s the problem?”

“Are you planning on killing them?” Arch asked, and Jen’s stomach roiled at the idea.

“No!” she said. “I- nobody’s killing anybody!”

“Jude,” Rosie said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “this is the Hunger Games. It is literally all about killing.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Jen whispered, aware of how weak her arguments had become, how naïve she sounded. There really was no logical reason to form an alliance with five kids, but logic didn’t always come into play, not when she saw Ripley’s expression turn from dejected to ecstatic in less than a minute, not when she saw how hard her girls worked and how they instinctively protected each other.

Rosie was talking, but Jen couldn’t bring herself to listen. All right, she was a stupid little girl and she was going to die. They’d already established that. Couldn’t she just make her own choices, couldn’t she live her last couple of days without being a puppet?

Jen stood up and left, cutting Rosie off mid-sentence and leaving her oatmeal to get cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I spend more time naming the chapters than writing them.


	9. The Makin' the Ghost of It Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Horror stories are a necessity for every camping experience. All Lumberjanes should have some tales of terror up their sleeves._

The next few days passed in a blur of training, metal clashing against metal, and memorization.

They dissected each other, pulling out useful skills and comparing them. Mal liked strategizing, and she and Jo could talk for ages about various plans. Molly said she was pretty good with a bow and arrow, but wanted to keep that particular skill on the down-low until the Games. Not a single station in the Training Center was left untouched, and they quickly discovered what sorts of things they were good at.

Some nights, they crowded onto Jen’s bed until it sagged, discussing strategy or quizzing each other or just soaking up the presence of five friendly faces. 

Other nights, they went to their own rooms, and these were the nights that Jen stayed in the shower until her skin felt raw, and slept in dashes of tumultuous dreams.

She tried not to count the days that were rapidly turning into hours. There were so many things to count down to. The private training with the Gamemakers. The interviews. The Games themselves. All things that would determine her fate.

Still, she couldn’t help but worry. There was only so much training they could do, after all. Only so much preparation.

And so, she found herself on the last day of training, squeezing every minute out of it. They split up, they regrouped, and they talked in low voices, glancing over their shoulders. 

Jo was up first. Ripley hung off her arms, keeping a steady chant of “good luck, good luck, good luck.” It had been determined that they would attempt to get mediocre scores, but it was impossible to tell how they would be judged. 

“You’ll do great!” April called. “Just don’t worry about it!”

Jo flashed them a nervous grin before disappearing into the heavy double doors.

The minutes she spent in there were agonizingly long, but when she returned, she was met with cheerful smiles and claps on the back.

“I think I did okay,” Jo said. “I’m not sure. There wasn’t a lot I could do in there, so I listed bunch of poisonous plants and berries and built a snare.”

“I’m sure you did fine,” Jen said. They would all do fine. They were strong and smart and resourceful.

Next was April, who proudly proclaimed that the Gamemakers had seemed highly impressed by her strength, and after that it was Molly, who smiled and said that their bow was great, and then it was Jen’s turn.

She took slow steps toward the doors, trying to swallow down her mounting trepidation, trying to pretend that this wasn’t a matter of life and death.

Arch passed her on his way out. He didn’t meet her eye, instead staring resolutely at the floor, and she found herself wondering how he’d done. Did he have weaponry skills? Was he a survivalist? 

The Gamemakers looked bored, and definitely not like they were taking this seriously. Indignation flared up in Jen’s chest, and she fought to keep her face neutral as she stood before them.

One of them gave a slight cough, as if to tell her to get on with it, already. She flushed, and started to talk.

Maybe it wasn’t the best route, but it was the only one she had. She listed poisonous plants and berries, like Jo had, and talked about how to get nutrients from almost anything. With sweaty, shaking hands she walked them through how to make a snare, set a trap, and disguise yourself. It was impossible to read the Gamemakers’ faces, so she didn’t try. 

At the end, she glanced up for the first time, looking them right in the eye. She smiled, a sweet Capitol smile, and said, “Thank you for your time.”

Then, she got the hell out of there before she threw up.

She walked into a sea of excited faces and waving hands and questions. She answered them carefully, and she didn’t talk about how unimpressed the Gamemakers had looked, how many of them weren’t even watching her. 

“I did okay, I guess,” she lied, and then it was Mal’s turn, and everyone’s attention was successfully diverted.

Mal did well enough, probably better than Jen had done, and they got a break as Ten went in, and then Ripley tugged on Jen’s sleeve, eyes wide and worried.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna do,” she said, voice low and confidential.

“You’ll do great,” Jen said. “Training scores don’t mean much, really. They’re judging us individually, but as a team we’ll be a lot stronger. Just climb some stuff and show them your stance. They’ll love you.”

Privately, she wondered what it really took for the Gamemakers to even pay attention.

And Ripley’s district partner, a quiet, skinny fifteen-year-old, came out looking queasy, and Ripley squeezed Jen’s hand once, and she went in.

All was silent. Everyone wondered what Ripley was doing, how the judges were reacting, if she was going to be okay. It felt like hours, standing and watching.

Ripley came bursting out, a flurry of movement and thrill, and ran right into Jen’s ready arms. 

“Did you blow them away, Rip?” Mal asked, holding her fist out for some reason. 

“Yeah!” Ripley said, bumping her fist with Mal’s. A District thing, Jen supposed. 

“We knew you would,” April informed her, and Ripley’s grin was so wide it looked almost painful.

Jen smiled, although it felt a little strained. She was glad Ripley had done well, but the stress wouldn’t go down until they received their scores in the evening, something they had to be apart for, and she was exhausted. “Nice job,” she said. “All of you. I know you’re gonna kick butt.”

"We’re gonna kick butt,” Molly corrected her, and Jen’s smile was real this time.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re gonna kick butt.”

“After sleeping for a million years, of course,” Jo added.

“Of course,” Jen said.

“Last one to the elevator is a rotten egg!” Ripley piped up, and Jen got lost in the resulting tangle of arms and legs and laughter.

The elevator doors slid shut, and Jen stared out over the glistening Capitol, listening to the relieved chatter of her girls.

-

Arch sat uncomfortably. It was something Jen had noticed about him long ago, before they were pulled onto a train to fight each other to the death. No matter where he was, who he was with, what he was doing, he always looked tremendously eager to leave. 

There, in the relative quiet of the room, he pressed his hands together until they turned white. He raked his teeth over his lower lip, again and again and again. She’d memorized all his little tics and quirks, of course, but it was disquieting to see them here,   
when everything else had changed.

“Okay,” It was Woof who joined them first, easing between them on the sprawling couch. “It comes on in two minutes. Rosie’ll be here soon. Are you two ready?”

His voice was kind, like always. Jen drummed her fingers on the armrest. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said flatly. She saved her chirpiness for the cameras, saved her happiness for her girls. Here, she was a shell of a person. 

Arch nodded stiffly, leaning in to ask Woof a question in a low voice. Jen tuned them out, staring at the big blank screen before them. Tonight determined her fate, and the fate of all her girls.

Rosie strolled in, leaning over the couch and tapping her foot, as if impatient for the broadcast to be over with. Jen twisted her fingers together. Should she say something? Should she apologize? Rosie wasn’t being a great mentor, but Jen hadn’t exactly been the most willing of students.

The Capitol seal came to life on the screen, accompanied by triumphant music, and Jen refocused. She would not be nervous. She would not let anything catch her off-guard.

Faces and numbers started to scroll across the screen, taking their sweet time. It didn’t escape Jen’s notice that there were no names, only Districts.

They blurred together in her mind. The four Careers came first, scores ranging from eight to ten, and Jen sucked in her cheek, biting it hard. The Gamemakers were tough scorers.

Jo looked startled in her photo, as if the cameras had gone off suddenly. It took a moment, but a six appeared, and Jen released a breath. Six, that was okay, that had to be okay. The Gamemakers hadn’t seen the full extent of Jo’s talents.

There was a boy Jen didn’t recognize, and then April, looking perfectly innocent for the camera. She got a nine, and Jen let out a whoop before she could stop herself. Rosie glared at her, Arch looked the other way, and Jen sunk further into the cushions.

Faces and numbers, faces and numbers. Jen tried to keep track of them all, but she was too nervous. It seemed like the blink of an eye before Molly showed up, looking unsure.

She got a ten. A ten! She must have been better at archery than she’d said. Jen was careful not to make a sound, but her grin probably gave her away.

And then it was their turn. Arch first, with a pretty good photo of him tilting his chin upwards. He got a six, like Jo. 

“That’s pretty good,” Woof murmured to Arch, and Rosie shushed him.

And then Jen was staring at her own face. She had no idea when they’d taken the picture, but it was a good one. She had been caught mid-laugh, undoubtedly at something one of her girls had said.

She got a seven, and she smiled in spite of herself. Not quite like the Careers, but a decent score. Solidly average. Average seemed to be the thing to hope for.

Rosie stood up. “A six and a seven.”

Jen couldn’t tell what she meant by that- if they were bad scores, or okay scores, or what. All she knew was that she could focus on scores later, once she knew everybody’s.

Mal was next, looking directly into the camera, which was a little surprising. Jen figured that Mal had been the only one who saw them. She got a seven, like Jen, and faded away just as quickly, easily forgotten.

And then Ripley, eyes wide and excited, clearly gesticulating about something. She got an eight, and Jen couldn’t help beaming at the screen. Her girls had done so well. They were going to be okay. 

Rosie left, rolling her eyes. Woof started to say something, but stopped himself.

There were two skinny Twelves with bad scores, sending a pang through Jen. They were older, probably sixteen or seventeen, but they had the same frightened look as many of the younger tributes. 

The Capitol seal reappeared, the music swelled and dipped, and it was done. The screen faded to black, looking perfectly innocent.

“Rosie didn’t mean anything,” Woof was quick to say. “You guys did all right. Average scores are something to hope for, usually. The smaller and larger scores are attacked first, in the Games. You can fade into the background until it’s time to strike.”

Somehow, the thought wasn’t comforting.

Jen stood up and made a big show of stretching. “I think I’ll go to bed,” she said. “Long, stressful day.”

Woof nodded. “Understandable. I would recommend you go over some key points you’ll want to hit in the interviews. You can never be too prepared.”

Jen smiled at him. “I’ll do my best,” she said. She liked Woof. She wasn’t his responsibility, but he seemed to have taken over from Rosie. In Eight, the best people were considered the ones who did more than required, just because it was the right thing to do.  
Of course, that was mainly propaganda, spewed to disgruntled workers forced to pull longer and longer shifts at the factories. Mentoring two frightened teenagers as they entered the Hunger Games was pretty different.

Jen escaped to her room, collapsing face-first onto her bed. Her girls were probably going to come tonight, which would be prime time for discussing interview strategies, if she wasn’t so damn tired. Tired of the charades, the lies, smiling for an endless sea of cameras. 

Still, she heaved herself up. They needed her. She made her way over to the window, pressing her face against the cool glass. The neon lights of the Capitol swam together, giving her a bit of a headache. How could this possibly be home to so many people? How could anyone enjoy living here, underneath the starless skies?

“Knock knock!” came a cheerful voice from the other side of the door. It was April, Jen knew immediately, and she pulled herself straighter, turning around. 

“Come on in!” she called, sitting back down on the bed. The sheets were neatly made and freshly pressed, likely by nameless, faceless Avoxes.

Her girls came in, assembling themselves across the bed, chairs, and carpet. Ripley leaned into Jen, and Jen put an arm around her and pulled her close.

“We did great!” Mal burst out from her spot next to Molly on the carpet. “I was really worried, but we all did great.”

“Definitely,” April said. “We got some solid scores. Also, jeez Molly, a ten?”

Molly reddened, tugging at her collar. “I shot a couple targets,” she said. “Not a big deal.”

“Yes, big deal!” Mal said, nudging Molly with her shoulder. “You’re like an action hero.” 

“We should talk about interviews,” Jo said. “They’re tomorrow night, and we need to be ready.”

April grinned, a mischievous look spreading over her face. “I’ll be Caesar Flickerman,” she said. “Which means I get the good chair.”

Jo grumbled, but relinquished her chair. 

“Jo, you’ll be going first,” April said. “Sit in my chair. I’ll ask questions, and you’ll answer them like you will when you’ve got neon lights in your eyes and your audience is a bunch of judgmental rich people.”

“All right,” Jo said. “But you have to announce me.”

April cleared her throat and said in a deep, hilarious voice, “And from District Three, Jo Fawcett! Give her a hand, ladies and gentlemen!”

Slightly starstruck, Jen, Molly, Mal, and Ripley applauded.

“It’s great to be here, Caesar,” Jo said. Her voice was perky and energetic, and very un-Jo-like. She settled into the chair opposite April and waved to the crowd.

“So, Jo,” April leaned in the exact way Caesar did whenever he was onto a good story. “I hear you’ve formed a pretty big alliance!”

“That I have, Caesar,” Jo said. “I love April, Jen, Molly, Mal, and Ripley. Wow, that’s a mouthful!”

She smiled. It looked painful. There was a beat, and then Ripley laughed softly.

“Okay, cut.” April said. “No jokes. You are not a joking person. Just be yourself. Don’t try to be what the Capitol wants, okay? You can never tell what the Capitol wants, and you’re not doing a very good job. Don’t say Caesar’s name in every sentence. Don’t smile if you don’t feel like it, unless you think you’re really good at faking them. Don’t list all our names. If the Capitol doesn’t already know, it’ll add an element of surprise that they’ll like. You’re going to be the one introducing the alliance, Jo. You need to make an impression.”

“I’ll try,” Jo said. “I’m not very good at public speaking.”

“You’re not public speaking,” Mal pointed out. “You’re having a conversation with a man who’s interested in you and what you have to say. You can ignore the audience, if you want.”

“Yeah,” Ripley said. “Caesar’s not scary. I’ve seen him on TV a bunch of times.”

“His job is to make this easy for you,” Molly said. “He’ll work with you. Whatever you have to say, he’ll listen.”

“Okay,” Jo took a deep breath. “I’m ready to try again.”

“All right.” In the blink of an eye, April changed from herself to Caesar Flickerman in a fluid, seamless transformation. It was incredible to watch, really. 

They ran through everybody. It was easy enough to talk to April, who provided a relaxed atmosphere that Jen knew wouldn’t be replicated in the actual interviews. When it was April’s turn, Mal stepped up to be Caesar, using a voice even more ridiculous than April’s.

“April!” Mal said, making a big show of flipping her hair out of her face. “My original plan was to talk to you about the death match you’ll be entering tomorrow, but instead, I’d like to take the time to draw attention to my hair.”

Molly sputtered with surprised laughter. Jen could feel Ripley shake next to her.

“See how glorious it is, folks?” Mal continued. “How glossy? The lighting in here really does capture it. Cameramen, zoom in on it, please. Ahh, that’s the ticket. Look at it. Look at it.”

April wheezed with laughter. “Mal!”

“Who?” Mal said absentmindedly. “See, I tried a new stylist today. She told me that my hair is glorious the way it is and that I don’t need any help. Of course, I know that my hair is glorious. I’m not paying you to tell me that!” She shook her head. “Stylists. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”

By then, everyone was laughing so hard they could barely breathe. Even Mal started to chuckle after a while, letting her hair fall back into her face. 

It had been a long time since Jen had laughed this hard, and she would have never thought that it would come two nights before she was sent off to die. Still, she was ridiculously happy, sprawled across her bed with Ripley’s head in her lap, her girls all around her and having a good time.

“Thank you for answering my many helpful questions!” Mal said, letting the deep voice return. “I’m sure I just got you tons of sponsors. You should thank me.”

“Thank- thank you,” April gasped.

“You’re welcome!” Mal cried, standing up and giving her hair one last, long flip before staring somewhere behind Jen and saying in a suddenly serious voice. “Capitol Hair Care. Because we can’t all look this good, but you may as well try.”

With that, she returned to her spot on the carpet, looking very proud of herself.

Molly cackled, leaning her head on Mal’s shoulder. “You should mimic him in the actual interview.”

“Yeah!” Ripley said. “Deflect weird personal questions by repeating everything he just said in a stupid voice! Always a crowd pleaser.”

“Stop copying me! Stop copying me!” Mal mimicked. “Yeah, I’d be super popular with the sponsors. I can see the headlines now- Snarky Teenage Tribute Effectively Annoys Everyone in Panem!”

“’Cept for us,” Ripley said. “You won’t have annoyed us.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Mal said, reaching over to tousle Ripley’s hair. “Do you want to do a serious one now, April?”

April waved her away. “Nah, I’m good. Nobody’s in the mood to talk about death and strategy now, anyway. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”

“I’ll toast to that,” Jo said, and she and April clinked invisible glasses.

Ripley bounced up and down a little. “Let’s tell stories!”

“Real stories?” Molly asked, and Ripley made a face.

“No,” she said. “Real stories are sad. Let’s make up some stories.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jen said. What stories did she know? It didn’t matter, she could make it up as she went along. “I’ll go first.”

She smiled down at five eager, waiting faces. “Okay, so there was this lady, and she lived alone, I guess, in a scary castle? Because OF COURSE SHE WOULD THAT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE LET’S JUST WILLINGLY PUT OURSELVES IN MORTAL PERIL, WHY NOT and maybe it’s a haunted castle? Which I never understood, SELL YOUR HAUNTED CASTLE, who needs the stress. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really long. Like, really long. But it's probably my favorite chapter yet and for a while to come, so I hope you enjoyed it!  
> (I'm corner-of-sky on tumblr, btw.)


	10. The Up All Night Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _While sleep is extremely important, occassionally there are activities that are simply better under the cover of night. A true Lumberjane takes advantage of the darkened hours._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the two-week break. This chapter is extra-long because of that, and because I may take another hiatus soon.
> 
> Oh, warning for minor mention of drug use, I guess.

“Have you prepared for your interview?”

Jen glanced up, surprised. Rosie hadn’t spoken with her much since . . . well, since they’d argued, really. Jen mainly tried to stay out of Rosie’s way, eating quick meals by herself before running down to the Training Center, but today Rosie had gotten up early, and had been waiting with an untouched cup of coffee and a muffin arranged in front of her.

Jen took it in stride, or at least tried to. Just because they were in the same room didn’t mean they had to argue over Jen’s life choices.

“I have,” Jen said. “I mean, as much as one can.”

“I certainly hope you prepped your alliance.”

Jen shoved a forkful of egg into her mouth, wishing she could avoid this conversation. She swallowed and said, “I did my best. I think they’re ready.”

“I don’t,” Rosie said bluntly, and Jen bit the inside of her cheek, staring down at her plate.

When she didn’t respond, Rosie forged on. “I mean, Chaff is certainly commendable, and I suppose the other mentors have been working on it, but have you forgotten that nobody in your alliance has the faintest idea what it’s going to be like?”

Jen wondered, briefly, if Rosie was speaking from experience. “I’m guessing it’s pretty different from what we see on television every year.”

“Damn right it’s different,” Rosie said. “Are they meeting you downstairs?”

Jen could not for the life of her understand why Rosie had picked now, of all moments, to care about what Jen did. “I think so.”

“Good.” Rosie picked up a butterknife and swung it effortlessly through her fingers. “Tell them to meet me here in fifteen minutes. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Yeah,” Jen said, dumbfounded. “I guess we do.”

Rosie looked impatient, so Jen pushed aside her breakfast and hurried toward the elevator. She supposed she shouldn’t question it. Rosie taking an active interest in the alliance couldn’t be anything but good, after all. Rosie was tough, and she knew what to expect.

“Jen!” Jo’s voice cut through the room the moment Jen stepped off the elevator. “Come look at what Mal can do!”

Jen did have a lot of interest in what Mal could do, but she got the feeling that Rosie wasn’t going to wait around for them. She jogged over.

“My mentor wants to meet us,” Jen said. “Upstairs.”

Ripley slid off the table (Seafarin’ Karen didn’t even mention it anymore, and Jen had to admit that Ripley, at least, had a lot of people hooked). “I get to meet Rosie?” she said, looking like someone had just told her that they could bring Mr. Sparkles to life.

“Yeah,” Jen said. “Everyone game?”

Molly grinned. “Oh, we’re totally game.”

“Okay,” April said as they filed into the elevator. “Did she make it sound like a good meeting or a bad meeting?”

Jen shrugged. “It’s really hard to tell with Rosie. She said something about us needing more preparation for the interviews.”

Jo ran a hand through her hair. “That sounds like a good meeting. Wouldn’t that be a good meeting?” She directed this at April, who shrugged.

“I think it’s a good meeting,” Ripley said. “Because Rosie wants to help us.”

“We don’t know that,” Jen pointed out.

“She does,” Ripley said confidently. “She’s your mentor. She has to help.”

The doors slid open. Rosie sat in the exact spot she had ten minutes ago, sipping her coffee. She set it down when she saw the girls and smiled in a way Jen had never seen before. “Ah, good! Come in, come in. Did everyone get enough breakfast?”

Slowly, Mal nodded. Jo shot a look at Jen, who shrugged, mystified.

“All right,” Rosie said. “I do hope there are enough chairs.” She seemed to be directing this to the room at large, and nobody answered. Jen couldn’t help but notice that there were two more chairs pushed up to the table than there had been the last time she was here.

“Now.” Rosie folded her hands in front of her. The smile still hadn’t left her face. It looked kind of jarring. “I hear you girls are having some trouble with your interview?”

Ripley, emboldened by the smiles and general friendliness, spoke up. “April played Caesar Flickerman and when she was being interviewed Mal was Caesar Flickerman, and she was really funny. Show her, Mal.”

A dull flush started to creep up Mal’s neck. “Not now, Rip.”

“Sounds great!” Rosie said. She had yarn out, Jen realized, spread over her lap. Rosie knitting and smiling and being nice seemed to go against the natural order of the universe. Jen knew about the sorts of things that happened in the Capitol, and she wondered what Rosie had been taking.

Rosie leaned back. “Have you got a plan?”

“We were going to tell stories,” April offered. She was watching Rosie’s hands, which blurred against the knitting needles. “About our lives, about our families. About what the alliance means to us.”

“We’re trying to make ourselves seem more human,” Jo added. “That way, the Capitol might feel bad about killing us.”

“I wouldn’t bank on that, girls,” Rosie said. “Still, it’s a good plan. How heartbreaking are your stories?”

“Massively heartbreaking,” Mal assured her. “Ripley told them to me and I almost cried three times.”

“Good,” Rosie said pensively. “Good.” She snapped back to attention. Something orange and complicated was taking form underneath the needles. “My best advice to you is to keep your cool, no matter what. Caesar likes throwing out unexpected questions. The Capitol gets bored, you know, and he does his best to create gamechangers. Give answers that will make people wonder about you. Make yourselves memorable.”

“The Capitol gets bored?” Jen asked before she could stop herself. “What, us parading in front of them and killing each other for their entertainment isn’t enough?”

Rosie’s eyes took on a new quality, one that Jen couldn’t quite place. “It’s never enough.”

Molly coughed awkwardly. “What kinds of things can we do to make ourselves more memorable?”

“Excellent question!” Rosie said, immediately flipping the switch again. “You’re already fairly memorable, I’d say. You have a large alliance, with Districts that haven’t gotten along in the past. None of you have anything obvious to gain from this alliance, and everyone’s quite curious as to why, especially in your case, Guinevere. People want to know why an eighteen-year-old allied herself with five children under the age of fourteen. You need to give them answers that they like, answers that are just enough to keep them interested. It’s an art form, really. Such a shame that everyone hates it so much.”

“We know why Jen allied herself with us!” Ripley said proudly. “Because she’s awesome!”

Rosie laughed. Actually laughed. “The Capitol might not like that answer, I’m afraid.”

“Well, there’s also another reason,” Jo said. “It’s because she wants to make her mom proud. In her District, there’s a lot of things kids need protection from, and she grew up watching her mom consistently help anyone who needed it. If she’s going to die, she wants to do it in a way that will make her mom proud.” Jo flashed an almost impish smile to Jen. “Isn’t that right?”

“Right,” Jen said.

“It’s all very tragic, really,” Mal added.

“So sad,” April agreed. “Hey, didn’t we originally have a bit about how Jen once got trapped in a collapsing factory with a bunch of little kids and she helped them out? I thought that was a good bit.”

“It’s good,” Jen said, “but it wasn’t a collapsing factory. It was a school, and the Peacekeepers were stomping up and down the halls, looking for some kid whose parent did something. And we can’t say that, because it sounds like we’re criticizing the Capitol and the Peacekeepers.”

“Say it,” Rosie said. “It’s excellent. The Peacekeepers are an entirely separate affair from most of the Capitol. They’re trained in District Two, after all. Your anecdote will be touching and sweet, showing your heroic side and making people like your chances. It may also cause people to protest some of the things Peacekeepers do and lighten security in Eight.”

“Okay,” Jen said. It hadn’t been a very big deal at the time, but she had learned to milk things in the Capitol. She felt almost powerful in that moment. If she, using only her words, could take some Peacekeepers out of her District, what else could she do if she played her cards right?

The Games really were a game. A sick, twisted game with horrific consequences, but a game. Games involved strategy, and Jen was good at strategy.

“I think you girls are set,” Rosie said, and it was impossible to mistake the warmth in her voice. “Go back down there and kick some ass.”

April saluted her. “Don’t worry. We will.”

As soon as they were back in the elevator, Ripley said, “Rosie’s really nice, Jen!”

“I guess so,” Jen said. “She’s never been like that with me. Maybe she had a change of heart.”

“Maybe,” Molly said. “I think she just wanted to help.”

“She just wanted to help,” Jen repeated. Maybe that was it. Maybe Rosie really did want to help.

Why were all the Hunger Games victors so impossible to figure out? Was that something that happened in the Games, or was it armor formulated in the years following?

Either way, she could reflect on that later. Now, she had a full day for last-minute training, and she intended to use it all.

-

Jen kept her mouth shut as her hair was pulled from her legs. She kept her mouth shut while stylists complained about her nose and debated what to do with it. 

Still, she couldn’t be entirely sure that she would restrain herself when they brought out her costume.

She knew that the interview outfit was significantly nicer than the ridiculous costumes, but she couldn’t help but worry. She hated being dressed for the Capitol, paraded in front of them. She hated feeling like her body was not her own.

“Okay,” chirped one of the stylists. Jen felt bad that she still couldn’t remember her name. “So, we thought long and hard about what to dress you in.”

Jen nodded mutely. She didn’t really have a say in it, after all.

“Ballgowns are in, but not your style. We were thinking about District Eight, all the stuff that has to happen to keep the machines running. It’s science, you know?”

Jen resisted the urge to say that it was really more mechanics. Science was a promising conversational topic.

“So, ta-da!” Another stylist came forth with a mannequin, and Jen momentarily forgot to breathe.

The mannequin was dressed in a lab coat- stark and white, neatly pressed. There were pens in one pocket and she could ignore the fact that the buttons were glimmering jewels, that the sleeves hung off the arms in a way that was really a safety hazard.

It was a lab coat, and it was hers.

“Do you like it?” one of the stylists asked anxiously, and Jen swallowed.

“I love it,” she said, and for once, she didn’t have to lie.

-

Ripley found her backstage, wringing her hands and trying not to look freaked out. 

“Hi, Jen!” Ripley said. “I like your lab coat!”

Jen smiled. Her nerves had condensed into a ball in her stomach. “Thank you. You look nice, too.”

Ripley was in a pink dress that was absolutely covered in glitter. She twirled, and the skirt fanned out around her. “I asked them to make it sparkly.”

“They did a great job,” Jen said. “You know what you’re going to say, right?”

Ripley stopped and looked up at Jen with wide, sad eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “I have a lot of brothers and sisters and you reminded me of them.”

“Good,” Jen said. “Are you nervous?”

Ripley frowned at the floor. “A little bit. My family’s going to be watching.”

“Don’t be,” Jen said, well aware of how hypocritical that sounded. “They’re going to love you.”

“I don’t want them to love me,” Ripley said. “I just wanna go home.”

And with that, her face crumpled suddenly, and Jen pulled her forward. Ripley had been so brave the past week. She’d been strong and sweet and so excited, Jen had almost forgotten the toll the Games took on her.

“It’s okay,” Jen whispered, feeling awful because it wasn’t okay, it was very far from okay. “You will.”

“I won’t.” Ripley said. “Twelve-year-olds don’t ever win.”

“There’s a first for everything,” Jen said. “And most twelve-year-olds don’t have a super awesome alliance that’s going to help them through this. We’ll survive, Ripley. We’re good at that.”

“I guess,” Ripley said, voice muffled by Jen’s lab coat. “My stylists are gonna be so mad that I cried.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Jen said. “I’ll help you. And if it’s really obvious, just tell Caesar that you miss your family and you miss your home and you don’t want to die and it all just caught up with you.”

Ripley pulled her face from Jen’s chest, looking up at her. “Are you nervous, Jen?”

Jen laughed, but there was something dry and humorless about it. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” She smoothed down a bright blue lock of hair. “But I’ve got no reason to be.”

“That’s right,” Ripley said. “You don’t have any reason to be.”

Rosie hurried over. “Julia! Ripley!”

“Seriously?” Jen muttered.

“It’s about to start. Come over here, you were supposed to be sitting in your spots three minutes ago.”

Ripley glanced at Jen. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Quite all right,” Rosie said. “Hurry, now.”

They couldn’t see the other interviews. Jen tried to focus on what the others were saying, but it was hard. She heard Jo talk about her gear, voice calm. April flexed her muscles twice, on Caesar’s request. Molly stumbled over her words a bit, face flushed, and then Jen heard her name.

She came out and sat down, careful to keep her back straight and expression neutral. 

“So, Jen,” Caesar leaned forward, and Jen resisted the urge to lean away. “We hear you’re the ringleader of this alliance?”

Jen swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t call myself the leader,” she said, surprised by how strong and steady her voice sounded. “I’m the oldest, that much is true, and I try hard to protect them, but the truth is, they don’t really need protection. My girls are strong. They’re fearless. They take the lead as much as I do, if not more.”

“Interesting,” Caesar said. “Can you tell us a little bit about how the alliance started?”

Jen relaxed a little. She’d expected that question. “I met Ripley at the knot-tying station in the Training Center. She’s only twelve, you know, and she seemed very scared.” Jen had to be careful at this part. “When I was growing up, I watched my mom help people. District Eight can be a scary place, especially for kids. There are factory accidents, small food quotas, all kinds of things. My mom always helped anyone who needed it. She offered a hand and a friendly face to anyone who was frightened.” Jen swallowed hard and looked directly at the camera. “If she’s watching tonight, I know she’s proud of me.”

There was an uproar at these words. Jen felt slightly dizzy, amidst the noise and lights, but she managed a small smile. She was doing well. They liked what she had to say.

“Who had the idea to make the alliance bigger?” Caesar asked.

Jen laughed. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Mostly Ripley, probably. Jo and April were already in an alliance. They helped us out with a minor hair emergency.” She flashed a girls-what-can-you-do smile to the audience, who laughed.

“Mal and Molly helped us, too. Ripley’s token was stolen from her, and they got it back. It progressed from there. We became friends and allies.” The crowd fell silent at this, and Jen curled her fingers over to keep herself from biting her nails.

“Friends,” Caesar said. “So you girls consider yourselves friends?”

“Yes,” Jen said. “We’re friends.”

“It’s dangerous to have friends in the Games,” Caesar pointed out, the lightness of his tone betrayed by the words.

“My mentor keeps telling me that,” Jen said, wondering what Rosie would do in this situation. “And I believe her. But it’s dangerous to do anything in the Games. If I die, I want to die with people I love. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, really.”

It was dead silent for a terrible, terrible moment, and then the crowd erupted.

Caesar wiped away a tear. Jen wondered if it was fake. “Thank you so much, Jen. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The odds were never in her favor, but it was possible to tilt them. “Thank you, Caesar.”

With that, she stood up, making her way to the back of the stage, where she was positioned uncomfortably close to Arch.

He was gaping at her, naturally. She leaned over and shut his jaw with one hand.

The next interview was short, with a District Nine boy who stuttered over every word, and then Mal came out to take his place.

“Ah, another member of the famous alliance!” Caesar said. “Why did you join?”

“Well, Caesar,” Mal said in a near-perfect imitation of his voice. “I realized that I would regret it for the rest of my short life if I didn’t. Friends are important to me. It’s important that, in times of crisis, you have people to laugh with.”

From somewhere beside Jen, Molly sputtered with laughter, and that set the rest of them off. Jen knew that she looked crazy, knew that the Capitol might not get it, but she couldn’t stop.

The audience seemed to take it as a cue, however, and the building swelled with good-natured laughter.

“Mal,” April said. “Mal, no.” She was laughing, though.

Caesar was laughing too. He had a loud laugh, one that seemed to fill the entire room.

Mal put on her best innocent look. “What’s so funny, Caesar?”

Caesar didn’t get around to many personal questions with Mal. It was clear that he didn’t think she needed tragic stories to make the Capitol like her.

At the end, she gave a deep bow to the audience and jogged over to her spot.

Molly broke out of line and ran over to Mal, throwing her arms around her. Mal laughed, hugging her back and then Molly, blushing, returned to her spot.

Jen could practically see the lights in the Capitol’s eyes. That was possibly one of the best things they could have done, showing the Capitol that they all really were friends, that they could laugh together and have fun together, even on the brink of the Games.  
She could barely focus on the next three interviews, because then it was Ripley’s turn.

Ripley looked small and shy as she came out. She looked like she was drowning in her dress. She caught Jen’s eye, and Jen smiled and gave her a discreet thumbs-up. 

“Are you the last member of the alliance, then?” Caesar’s eyes were kind. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Ripley glanced around, looking nervous. “Y-yeah.”

“That’s a very pretty dress,” Caesar said. “Shiny.”

Ripley giggled a bit. “Yeah,” she said. “I like glitter a lot.”

“Well,” Caesar said, gesturing to his own blinding suit, “who doesn’t?”

Ripley laughed. Her voice was stronger now. “I told my stylists that I didn’t want the dress unless they put all the glitter they had on it.”

Caesar laughed with her. His tone was easygoing, friendly, as if saying, _See? There’s nothing to be afraid of._

“So, Ripley,” he said. “You started the alliance with Jen, did you not?”

Ripley squirmed, but it didn’t look like a nervous squirm. “Sort of. She was nice to me. I mean . . . I have a lot of siblings, and most of them are older than me. I grew up with people protecting me. And then I got Reaped and I came here and I was all alone, and nobody could protect me anymore. But Jen was here, and she was nice and helpful, and she reminds me of my big sister.” Ripley paused to wipe her eyes, and gave a small, watery laugh. “My biggest sister, I guess. She made me feel safe, and like I wasn’t alone anymore. And April and Jo taught me about disguises and they dyed my hair, and Molly and Mal got my unicorn back when someone stole it, and I was so worried about everyone being mean to me and how I was going to die in the arena, but they’re so nice, and if I die, I know I won’t die alone.” She took a deep breath. “Because that’s what I’m scared of the most, I guess. Not dying. Being alone.”

Jen was amazed. She felt the cameras on her, but she didn’t have to fake a reaction. She’d heard the story before, but not like that, nothing like that, and she felt tears run down her cheeks, warm and wet. She was powerless to stop them.

“It’s all right, dear,” Caesar said softly. “You’re never alone in the Capitol.”

He’d missed the point entirely. The company in the Capitol wasn’t the sort of company that brought comfort and warmth and happiness. The Capitol was foreign, alien to the tributes. It was too easy to feel alone here, too easy to be swallowed up in the neon and the music, too easy to disappear without a trace into the starless night.

But Ripley was good, better than Jen, so she just smiled and said a soft, “Thank you.”

Caesar waved her to the back, concern on his brow, and Ripley didn’t go where she was supposed to, but right into Jen’s arms, and Jen welcomed her.

“You did great,” Jen whispered into her hair, all too aware of the cameras on them, the million eyes of the Capitol. 

Ripley didn’t respond, which only made Jen hold her tighter, as if the moment she let go, Ripley would be swallowed by the arena and the sharktoothed beauties of the Capitol.

-

There was something somber about this last night that Jen didn’t like. Something painful about the way they all took their usual positions- Jen and Ripley on the bed, Jo and April in the chairs, Molly and Mal on the carpet- with the knowledge that it would be their last time sitting there.

Ripley started crying after a while, and nobody comforted her with empty promises this time. Instead, they sat, gazing forlornly at each other, and wishing that they could be friends in any other circumstance.

“Let’s do something big,” April said. “Something we’ve always wanted to do.”

“Not a lot we can do here,” Jo said. “We’re confined to the building. We’ll get caught, we’ll get killed.”

Nobody mentioned that they were going to get killed anyway.

“Let’s go down to the Training Center,” Molly said with a decisive air. “We’ll get some food on the way.”

Jen wasn’t keen on the idea of more training, but it was better than sitting around being miserable, so she relented and then they were on the elevator, going down to the Training Center.

There was food in the dining areas, stocked in pantries, and they each picked something out, and then they were in the abandoned room.

“I’ve never seen it with no people,” Mal murmured, glancing around. “It’s weird.”

“And quiet,” Molly said. “I like it.”

“Not for long!” Ripley cried. “Hey, April?”

April glanced down, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “What?”

“TAG!” Ripley shrieked, batting April’s arm, and she was off like a shot.

“Oh no you don’t, you little hellion!” April shouted, giving chase.

Jo shrugged and followed.

“Hey, Molly, look.” Mal reached over and grabbed an apple from their small feast. She placed it carefully on top of her head. “Think you could shoot it off?”

Molly made a face. “I’m not going to shoot you, Mal.”

“I’m not asking you to. Just wondering if you could.”

Molly considered it. “Probably.”

Mal laughed. With the movement, the apple fell off and rolled underneath the knots table. “That’s cool. Want to see my special talent?”

Molly nodded, and Mal grabbed three more apples. Carefully, she threw one in the air, and then she was juggling, apples a blur of color.

Molly grinned. “Amazing.”

Jen left them to it, going to find the others. She was in charge of them, sort of, and she probably should keep them in her line of sight. After all, who knew how much trouble they could get into?

Jo flew over to Jen the second she came into view around the weapons rack. “Tag,” she said, breathless, tapping Jen’s shoulder lightly. “No tag backs.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jen said, and if there was a bit of snark in there, well, old habits die hard. Jo grinned and ran off, likely searching for April or Ripley. 

Jen doubled back, arriving just in time to see Mal and Molly bouncing around an apple, using hands, knees, anything. 

“That’s going to be a very bruised apple,” Jen noted.

“Not like we’re gonna eat it,” Mal said, keeping her eyes on their toy. “Try headbutting.”

Molly attempted to hit the apple with her forehead, but missed. It bounced against the wall behind her.

“I have something very important to tell you girls,” Jen said, leaning in close. Their eyes widened at the same time.

Jen tapped Molly’s wrist. “Tag, no tag backs.” She sprinted off before either of them had time to react.

From across the room, she could hear Mal shriek, “Molly, we’re friends, right?”

She could hear laughter from somewhere else, the laughter of friends just having a good time.

She slowed to a stop and leaned against the wall. They should go to bed, she knew, but she couldn’t bring herself to split up the party, not when they were all enjoying themselves for possibly the last time. 

She just hoped she could help them in the arena. That was all she wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff's happening!


	11. The Final Countdown Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Life contains many moments in which everything you've worked for comes to a pinnacle. All Lumberjanes should know how to maneuver through these moments._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: everything kinda goes to shit in this chapter. there is death and blood and violence and very little of anything funny or cute. i promise it won't be this way forever, but for now, things are not going well for our girls.

She was tense, and there was no use pretending otherwise, and she was tired of putting on a game face for the Capitol.

Rosie gave her coffee mixed with something strong and told her not to drink too much, and Jen laughed awkwardly, taking one sip and letting the rest grow cold.

She tried not to think about what she would be doing at this time tomorrow, or if she would even be alive this time tomorrow. 

She tried not to think about anything.

“Big day,” Rosie said, sounding positively bored. She’d been making an effort to help Jen a little more, but it still was very obvious that she didn’t want to be there. “You excited?”

Jen turned to stare at her incredulously. “Excited? Why would I be excited?”

Rosie shrugged. “Some tributes are weird. I was just trying to make conversation.”

“Okay,” Jen said. “How about this- you don’t try to make casual conversation four hours before I’m sent off to die. Sound good?”

Rosie took Jen’s mug and tipped back the rest of it. “I can do that.”

Jen chewed on her lip. “Good.” She thought about asking Rosie to stay sober and helpful, reminding Rosie how much she was needed, but decided against it. Even after everything, she was mildly terrified of Rosie.

It seemed a step up from totally terrified of Rosie.

“Where are your girls?” Rosie said, and Jen noted with a vindictive sort of pleasure that Rosie called them Jen’s girls.

“Probably doing the same thing I’m doing right now, except with saner mentors,” Jen muttered. “I appreciate you helping them out, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”

Rosie stared at Jen for a long time. Her gaze was steady and near-empty. “Want to hear a secret?”

“Sure,” Jen said, although she didn’t know how many more secrets she could take.

“I love kids. Love ‘em. I want some of my own, except they would definitely be Reaped as soon as they were old enough.”

Jen didn’t know what she should focus on about that sentence. “The Reapings are random,” she said.

Rosie let out a long, low laugh. There was something unmistakably bitter about it. “If you still think that, maybe you’re not going to survive the first day after all.”

The words didn’t sting. In fact, Jen found herself pleased that Rosie had thought she stood a chance. 

And maybe the Reapings weren’t random. She didn’t really think they were, didn’t really think it was just a wacky coincidence that Victors’ children, friends, extended family members, were called up to the podium year after year after year. 

It just made more sense to think that they were. After all, Victors’ children were one thing, but Jen was the only daughter of a woman who always did what she was told, always picked up extra shifts at the factory. It couldn’t be completely rigged. There was no reason for Jen’s name to have been pulled.

“Bottom line is, I don’t mind helping your girls,” Rosie said. “It’s a good thing you’re doing. ‘Course, the Games don’t care about the good things you do.”

“Only the bad,” Jen murmured. The only people who won the Games were murderers. 

Rosie nodded. “I thought you might’ve figured it out.”

“It won’t change anything,” Jen was quick to say. “Not for me.”

Rosie shrugged, like she was too tired to argue now, so soon before the Games. “You’d be surprised how many others have said that.”

Jen stood up, chair scraping against the floor. “I should go find them. Nice talking to you, Rosie.”

Rosie regarded her with the solemn eyes of a woman who had seen year after year of tributes die and had no reason to think Jen would be any different. “You do that.”

Jen nodded. There wasn’t a lot to say, when it came right down to it. “Thank you for your help,” she managed, and sped away before Rosie had time to respond.

She wandered the halls for a long time, but she didn’t find her girls.

-

“It’s okay, lovie,” Cassiopeia crooned. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

Jen wondered if her escort knew how spectacularly unhelpful she was being. She wondered how many other tributes had entered the arena with their only comfort the thought that it would all be over soon.

“I’m going to fight,” Jen said. “Just so you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Cassiopeia said. “Everyone fights.”

“It’s not like we’re given a lot of choice.”

“I know, dearie. I know.”

Jen squeezed her fingers together. She was starting to really hate the Capitol.

“You’ll be famous,” Cassiopeia trilled, and Jen shot a can-you-believe-this look at Arch, who pointedly glanced away.

“Yes,” Jen said. “I’m sure it’ll be very glamorous, being gutted for all of Panem to see.”

Arch did look at her then. Cassiopeia wandered away to check on the stylists, and he hissed, “Be nice. She’s trying to help.”

“She’s doing a terrible job of it,” Jen snapped. “I can’t believe they make her the last person we see before the Games. One would think they would at least drag our mentors out.”

“The mentors had to take their positions thirty minutes ago,” Arch said, like that was that, and okay, maybe it was. “Just don’t get mad at Cassiopeia. She likes you.”

Jen snorted, glancing at the wall. “Yeah, right.”

“She does,” Arch said. “She likes everyone. She loves your alliance with those girls. Talked about it for ages.”

Jen sneaked a glance at his face, but he didn’t seem angry or bitter. “I’m sorry about the whole alliance mess.”

He rolled his eyes. “Here’s a tip- don’t save your apologies for the ten-minute countdown.”

Jen shrugged. “Fair enough.” The phrase ten-minute countdown made her insides squirm unpleasantly. This was it, this was really it. 

“Okay!” Cassiopeia said, hurrying back into the room. “You know the drill. Step into the tubes. Your stylists will come to see you off, and then you’ll be in the arena!” She clapped her hands together once. “May the odds be ever in your favor!”

Jen opened her mouth to say something snarky, then closed it again, glancing sideways at Arch. “Thanks.”

Cassiopeia directed them to their tubes, which were thin and clear and surely claustrophobia-inducing. Jen had no idea how they were going to get to the arena in the little pipes, but she suspected that a lot of technology was involved.

Arch stepped in first. Sweat slicked the back of his neck, and Jen saw him fold his shaky hands behind his back.

Jen touched the glass. Her finger left no smudge, no trace of ever having been there. Jen wondered if it would be the same for the rest of her- dropped off in the arena, with no sign of ever having stood here, attempting to slow her breathing and think of the right things to say to these people who she might never see again.

Instead, she stepped inside and was immediately closed in. The glass was crystal-clear, and she could see Cassiopeia and her stylists crowding around, waving and blowing kisses, big smiles on their faces, like this was all some trivial thing to them.

Jen glanced yet again at Arch. He returned the stylists’ smiles with a queasy-looking one of his own, and then the floor dropped out from beneath them.

Jen sucked in a breath, pressing her palms flat against the glass. They were traveling fast, very fast, faster than she had believed possible. It wouldn’t be more than a minute before they were there, and then the Games would begin.

And then she was dropped, rather unceremoniously, onto a platform. She scrambled for footing and glanced up just in time to see her tube disappear into the sky.

All around the circle, other tributes had been dropped off at the same time. She scanned for her girls, glancing every once in a while at the pile by the Cornucopia. They’d agreed not to go for it, but it was tempting, in the moment, to arm herself. To feel like she had some chance to fight.

A countdown started. The voice was cool and female. Jen pushed back a strand of her hair, and squeezed her hands into tight fists.

Fifty-eight, fifty- seven, fifty-six. . .

There was Ripley, not so far away. She had dried tear tracks crisscrossing over her cheeks.

Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven. . . 

April and Jo were close together, only a few yards apart, but all the way across the Cornucopia from Jen. They hadn’t picked a rendezvous point, why hadn’t they picked a rendezvous point? April looked determined, and Jo looked anxious.

Thirty-four, thirty-three, thirty-two . . . 

There was Mal. She wasn’t far from Jen, but they were separated by a burly, Career-looking boy who might cause trouble from them. Mal was clutching her abdomen, looking faintly sick. Jen hoped she could keep herself moving long enough to get with the rest of the alliance. Mal was, however, in prime condition to grab Ripley, even closer than Jen. That would be useful.

Twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four . . . 

Molly was on Jen’s other side. They were separated only by Arch, but Molly wasn’t looking at her. Jen couldn’t quite read Molly’s face, but she was sure there was a good deal of anxiety there.

Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen . . . 

They looked to be in a foresty area, which was good. Trees meant shelter, food, and hiding spots. They’d gone over how to survive in other climates, of course, but the Gamemakers often surprised everyone. There could still be a catch, but they’d figure that out soon enough.

Eleven, ten, nine, eight . . . 

Jen jerked a thumb towards the forest, indicating a place they should go. She got a nod from Jo, who could probably reach April quickly and tell her, a subtle thumbs-up from Mal, and a smile from Ripley.

Five, four, three, two, one.

A cannon went off, loud enough to cover fifteen different war cries, and then it was chaos.

Jen leapt from her platform, immediately going the long way so as to avoid the conflict already breaking out over weapons and supplies. She grabbed Mal and Ripley, doubling around and heading for the isolated patch of forest. She stifled a scream as she jumped over a boy on the ground, eyes glassy and devoid of life.

April and Jo were sprinting towards them, hand in hand, but Jen couldn’t see Molly in the brawl. She rose up onto her toes, scanning the mass of heads, but there was no blonde hair to be seen. She ignored the sick feeling twisting in her stomach, a monster of anxiety and guilt.

“Come on!” Jo yelled once they were close enough. “Come on, come on!”

“We need Molly!” Mal cried. Her voice was hysterical, and the monster of worry and doubt grew in Jen’s gut. “We need Molly- where’s Molly?”

April hesitated for only a split second, shock flitting across her face. “We need to go!” she said. “It’s okay, she’ll catch up later.”

Jen spun in a circle, scanning the perimeter. She couldn’t breathe. Her chest felt tight. Only a few minutes in, and she’d already failed to keep her girls safe.

They were going to be spotted. Already, a couple tributes were starting to take notice of the group just milling on the edges of the battlefield. For now, their reputation kept them safe, but it wouldn’t last. If someone with a weapon came at them, they would go down in a flash of blood and terror.

She didn’t want to make the executive decision. She didn’t want to leave Molly behind.

But it remained that a thirteen-year-old was not likely to make it out of the Cornucopia. Molly was probably dead already, as horrible as the thought was.

Jen shut all her emotions into one corner of her brain. They would mourn later, out of the fray. She would fret and worry and allow the crushing burden of guilt to overcome her once the rest of the girls were safe.

“Come on,” Jen said, fighting to keep her voice even. “We have to go, April’s right. We have to go.”

Mal twisted around, staring with unhidden horror at the bloody Cornucopia. The color drained from her face, and all her fight seemed to fall away.

“Mal?” Jo’s voice was very small.

A great shudder seemed to pass through Mal. “Okay,” she said weakly. “O-okay.”

They started toward the forest, running fast and hard, almost one being with a united goal. Molly’s face, Molly’s laugh, bounced through Jen’s head with every step.

She felt a sudden warmth, and looked down to see Ripley clutching her hand, face streaked with silent tears.

Jen squeezed her hand. She wanted to say something, anything. She wanted to tell Ripley it would be okay, but she knew it wouldn’t be.

They broke through the line of trees, falling out of sight, but kept running, kept going. It was stupid, Jen knew, to tire themselves out like this, but she couldn’t stop. Running made it bearable, at least for a little while.

Eventually, they stopped. Dusk was beginning to spread across the artificial sky and a few stars were visible, dim in the faint glow of the day.

Focus. She glanced around, taking stock of their surroundings. The trees looked young, but she couldn’t name them. Molly would have known. Molly would have given names and subspecies and if they bore anything edible. 

“We don’t know how cold it’s going to be,” Jen said, kneeling on the twig-strewn ground. “I think we should gather firewood, just in case. And scope out the area. We’ll need food eventually, even if we’re not hungry now.” It felt good to take charge, good to sound like she knew what she was doing.

April sprung to her feet. “Firewood, yeah. Hey Rip, wanna get wood with me?”

Ripley looked to Jen for guidance in a way that made her heart ache. “Don’t go far,” she said. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

“I don’t think we should split up,” Jo said. “It seems like a bad idea.”

Mal gave a hollow laugh, and Jo winced, like she hadn’t quite realized what she was saying. They were already split up, split up beyond repair. There was no way to bounce back from something like that.

“Okay,” Mal said. “We don’t split up, then. We don’t- we don’t split up.”

Ripley ricocheted across to Mal, wrapping her skinny arms around her. “We love you,” she whispered into Mal’s shirt.

Mal swallowed visibly, placing her arms tentatively around Ripley’s shoulders. “I love you too,” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper. “All of you.”

“We don’t leave one of our own behind,” April said, and her voice lacked its usual enthusiasm. “Except we did. I’m so sorry, Mal.” She closed her eyes. “We failed you.”

“Why did she do it?” Mal asked, and there was a pleading quality to her tone, as if she was desperate for any sort of answer. “We said we wouldn’t go to the Cornucopia.”

Jen closed her eyes, fighting back tears. The image came, unbidden, to her head. The pile of supplies, reaching up to the fake sun, and on top of it . . . 

“She went to get a bow,” Jen said, rubbing her eyelids with the back of her hand. “There was a bow there.”

Mal let out a soft noise, something between a howl and a sob. She didn’t say anything. There was nothing to be said. 

“Let’s get some firewood,” Mal said eventually, and she did not wipe her eyes, but she let the tears fall, dampening the ground. “We’ll need it.”

They gathered the wood in silence until darkness fell over them and they could no longer see it. They huddled together, a firepit carefully constructed in the middle, but nobody wanted to light it. Jen stared blankly up into the night. The stars didn’t even make constellations, and for some reason, that angered her.

Molly. Molly, who’d jumped at the chance to join them, delighted at the prospect of protection she never got. Molly, clutching her sides as she laughed at Mal’s Flickerman impression, tossing Mr. Sparkles back to Ripley with a grin, Molly, seeing a bow and running for it, thinking that it could be her chance.

She willed the tears to come, but they didn’t. Her eyes stayed dry and empty, and that seemed horribly cruel. She wanted to cry for the brave girl that they’d lost. She could not even honor Molly in this small way.

She heard Jo’s sharp intake of breath before she saw the Capitol seal, lighting up the sky. Of course. It was nighttime, and the surviving tributes got to see the faces and districts of the people they’d killed. The people who had lost the game.

Jen wanted to look away, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from it.

The faces blurred together, and Jen hated that she couldn’t remember any of them. They were good people, probably, good people in a very bad situation, and now they were dead and there was no saving them. Those people would not see their families ever again. Their lives had been taken from them by teenagers, all but one of which would die also, perhaps in a similar way. 

And then Arch showed up, smiling awkwardly at the camera, and Jen couldn’t breathe.

She’d been so rude to him, so cold and callous. She’d turned down his request for an alliance, she’d lied to him and ignored him and avoided him, all because of a silly fight a year ago. Now, his face was awash in blue light, and nobody in the arena would remember him tomorrow. He was just another casualty in the Games, but she couldn’t stop seeing his mother’s kind face, quietly wishing her luck before they were carted off to the train.

And then Arch’s face faded, replaced by another one, and someone was shaking her.

She turned to see Ripley, whose eyes were wide. “Jen, Jen, Jen!” she hissed.

“What?” Jen asked dully. Could she even hope to protect the others?

“Molly’s alive!” April burst out, fervor returning to her voice.

“What!?” Jen said, and yes, yes, yes! Arch’s appearance signaled something else- that District Seven had come and gone without Molly’s face showing. Jen hadn’t even thought about that, she’d been too wrapped up in mind-numbing grief.

“She’s alive,” Mal repeated, voice dazed. “She’s alive, she’s alive, Jen!”

“She’s alive!” Jen cried, relief washing over her. Why oh why had they ever doubted her? Molly was strong. Molly was a fighter. If anyone could get through the bloodbath, it was her. 

Jen felt the weight of Molly’s death lifting from her slowly, as if all her guilt was trickling from miniscule holes. Yes, the sensible part of her said that Molly could still be badly injured, could be dying slowly, but she wasn’t dead. There was still hope, and wasn’t that all they needed, really?

Ripley buried her face in Jen’s shirt. “We have to find her.” She lifted her head, eyes wide and imploring. “We have to find Molly! She’s out there somewhere!”

“I know,” Jen said. She felt strengthened by this purpose, the knowledge that there was something they could do. “We will, don’t you worry. For now, though, it’s dark and dangerous. I vote we go look in the morning.”

“She could be injured, though,” Jo protested. “Like, really badly.”

Mal dropped to her knees, poking at the dirt with one finger. “What if we don’t find her? She could be anywhere.” 

Jen exhaled slowly. She didn’t know what to tell them. The arena was giant, and dangerous mysteries lurked everywhere. It was entirely possible that they and Molly could spend the whole time circling each other, never crossing paths. 

“We’ll find her,” Jen said, but she heard the uncertainty in her own voice. “It’ll be okay.”

Ripley nodded, looking relieved. Something in Jen’s chest twisted seeing it, the blind faith Ripley had that things would be okay if Jen said they were. 

“We should stay here tonight, anyway,” April said. “Molly knows we agreed to meet somewhere in this area.”

“Yeah,” Jen said. “Get some sleep, everyone. I’ll take first watch.”

Nobody protested. It had been a very long day. Slowly, they curled up and stretched out, forming a ring of sleeping children.

Jen scooted to the center, leaning against a tree. She could see them all from her spot. She could see all the stress and anxiety of the day washing away, leaving peaceful faces. 

She scrubbed her face with one hand. Molly would be fighting sleep herself, probably exhausted and terrified. Maybe she’d found a way to sleep safely, up in a tree or something. It was more likely, though, that she was trying to stay awake. Maybe she’d gotten her prize, the bow, and was clutching it for comfort. Maybe she was thinking of them, wondering if they were okay. 

Molly was probably scared. Molly was alone. It was awful to think of. Maybe they were gazing up at the same stars, thinking the same worried thoughts. Maybe they were so much closer than they realized.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” she whispered into the night. April stirred, before rolling over and stilling again. It was stupid to think Molly could hear her, anyway. The only people that could hear her were the strangers across Panem, either rooting for their victory or their deaths. 

Maybe Jen’s mom was watching. She’d probably been glued to the screen all day, unable to tear her eyes away. Would her mom get any sleep during the Games? Would she dare drift off, for fear that she would miss her daughter’s last moments? The Games were unpredictable. She could die at any point, by any method, the random cruelty of the arena, or the other kids.

She felt like she had another apology. She squeezed her hands into fists behind her back. “I’m sorry, Arch.” She wasn’t apologizing to him, not really. She was apologizing to his parents, sweet people who had senselessly lost their son, a loss Jen could have prevented. She was apologizing to his mentor, who had likely just downed a shot and left the room, another year of dead tributes.

A memory came, unprompted, to her head. When she had been younger, maybe nine or ten, she’d written out a speech, spending late nights hunched over it. It had been a plea to stop purposeless Peacekeeper violence that was so abundant in her District, and she was so sure it was going to work. She’d labored over it, gotten everyone she knew to sign it. She’d somehow missed their sad, knowing looks. Her plan had been to send the letter to the President. If he was really so sensible and good as everyone said, he was sure to pay attention and do something about it. After all, she’d read up a little on democracy, and all good presidents listened to the people.

Her main argument had been for the little kids, the ones dumped in daycares from dawn to dusk, waiting for their parents to return from the factories. Peacekeepers had stationed themselves outside it, toting massive guns and scowls, terrorizing all the toddlers. It seemed like a sensible request, asking them to move. After all, there was no danger in one-to-four-year-olds. Weapons and armor seemed awfully unnecessary. 

Her mom had been the last to read the letter. Jen remembered it all so clearly- perching on a chair and swinging her legs, waiting for her mom’s valued wisdom. She’d been electric with the excitement of change, and she’d really thought she could do something great. 

Her mom had finished reading, sat quietly for a moment, and then folded it up neatly and pushed it aside. 

Jen, eager and young, had blurted out, _So, what do you think?_

Her mom had smiled, but it was a sad smile. Jen would get to know that smile well. _It’s very well-written, but I don’t think Panem is quite ready for letters from well-meaning kids._

 

That had stung. She’d always hated the phrase “well-meaning.” And she’d never really seen herself as a kid. 

_What do you mean?_ she’d asked. _Not ready for what?_

Her mom hadn’t answered. Jen had kicked the air, frustration brewing and bubbling.

 _Mom,_ she’d said. _Those kids are so scared. The Peacekeepers have no reason to be there. Can’t they just move?_

Her mom had opened her arms for a hug. _You’re right. You’re so, so right. But it’s dangerous to be right, here. Please, Jen, drop the matter._

 _But Mom-_ Jen had protested. _The kids._

 _You can’t protect everyone,_ her mom had said softly. It was one of those moments when the blinds were drawn and the lights were off, late at night when everything seemed secretive and important. _You can’t protect everyone, baby. Let me protect you. Just for now._

Jen had dropped the matter. The letter had been burned when winter rolled around. 

Now, the words echoed in her head. You can’t protect everyone.

She cast a sweeping glance over her girls. They looked very innocent, so out of place in the twisted arena.

She tilted her head back, staring up at the stars. _If I don’t, who will?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry.


	12. The Reel It In Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Fishing skills are extremely important whenever in the wilderness. A good Lumberjane can fish well and understands when to do so._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a gorily described death scene with blood in this chapter. please skip this chapter if you feel like you should. nothing super important happens, plot-wise. also, a character has something akin to a panic attack. shit goes down, yo.

“Food,” Jo said immediately upon being shaken awake. “Priority.”

Nobody could really disagree with that. They were all hungry, and if they had any sponsors, gifts weren’t coming.

“Hunting is our best bet right now, I’d say,” Mal said, scanning the trees. “Dammit, if only we had Molly. We’d get some meat in no time flat.”

Jen glanced sideways at Mal. She seemed to be doing fine, not quite as anxious as she’d been. There was still a little of that evident if you knew where to look, of course- her shaking hands and sickly pallor. But her voice didn’t tremble as she talked about Molly, and her gaze was focused.

“I can fish,” April offered, raising a lazy hand. “Probably not much use to us, huh?”

Jen smiled despite herself. “Sure it is. If there’s any water around, we’ll be very happy to have you.”

“Jen!” Ripley bounced up. The blue of her hair had faded a little over time. “We should go on a scavenging mission!”

“Like, looking for nuts and berries and stuff?” Jo crouched down, looking for tracks. “Sounds good to me.”

“We’ll come right back,” April assured Mal. “We just really need food.”

“Scavenging mission,” Jen said. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Ripley nodded, looking pleased with herself.

“Okay.” Jen straightened, attempting to strike a pose. “Our fearless explorers shall delve into the wilderness in search of sustenance. Our fearless explorers shall not split up in any circumstances.”

Jo grinned, flashing a quick salute. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

“Don’t eat anything before Jen okays it!” April called before skipping ahead. “And be quiet!”

They trudged through the woods. It seemed peaceful, almost worryingly so. There were no bloodthirsty tributes desperate to win, no Capitol-engineered mutations with dripping teeth and sharp claws. 

It was just the trees, the birds, and the five of them. 

It was Mal who saw the lake first, shining through gaps in the trees. She pushed aside a couple branches and strode ahead. 

Jen jogged to catch up with her, and the others were quick to follow. Soon, they lined up on the bank, silently watching the glassy, calm water.

“It looks so scary,” Ripley said in a small voice. She reached up automatically, and Jen took her hand.

It really didn’t look that scary, but Jen could sort of see what Ripley meant. The placidness of the lake’s surface seemed like a lie. It was the Hunger Games. Jen stepped back as images rose to mind of what horrors could be resting in there.

“I can make a net,” April said. She crouched, careful to stay away from the water. “If I find some good vines. There might be some fish in there.”

“I like fish,” Ripley said, swinging Jen’s arm a little. “Let’s not eat fish.”

Jo puckered her lips. “We might not have much of a choice,” she said, and it was true. There were no berries, no animals. They may as well have been in a desolate wasteland. 

“Nobody swim,” Jen muttered. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the water. 

Mal shuddered. “It’s a death lake. Filled with death.”

“Er.” April coughed slightly. “It could be filled with death. Or it could be filled with fish!”

“The death of fish is still death,” Ripley said solemnly, and Jen squeezed her hand. 

“Right,” April said. “The death of fish is a last resort.”

Mal jerked back suddenly, face pale. Her foot slid out from under her, and she landed hard in the sand. She scrambled backward, staring with wide, horrified eyes at the lake.

“What?” Jen said, momentarily forgetting to breathe. “Mal, what is it?”

“There’s a body in there,” Mal whispered. “Someone died in there.”

Ripley’s mouth dropped open. She shrank back. Her shaking hands formed fists, and tears began to pool at the corners of her eyes.

April squeezed her eyes shut. “There are fish in there, all right.”

“What?” Jo leaned out, and April tugged her back. “Oh jeez.”

The fish were suddenly evident. They were small, or so it seemed, slick and silvery. Teeth were evident, rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth. If Jen squinted, she could see red beneath the deceiving green.

Ripley sucked in a shaky breath from somewhere behind her, and Jen pulled her in, pressing her quivery body close. She opened her mouth to tell Ripley that it would be okay, but no words came out. 

A cannon sounded, and Ripley screamed.

They drew back as one, staring at the lake. A low, loud thrum was growing louder from somewhere above, and then a slim black helicopter descended from the sky, massive claw outstretched to pull the blood-soaked boy from his watery deathbed.  
Jen turned, a sharp movement. Every breath seemed to catch in her throat, and her vision blurred with tears that refused to fall. 

“Come on,” she said, and there was no use trying to keep her voice steady. “Come on, let’s- let’s get out of here.”

Nobody argued. The horror seemed to be a tangible thing, hanging heavy in the air, an unreleased breath. 

“Come on,” Jen said again, and that seemed to do it, because Mal started to sprint, tearing through the trees, and they followed, as if desperate for the wind to whip the memory away.

They slowed to a stop eventually, and Mal sank to the ground. Her face was red and soaked, and every breath came at a sharp rattle.

Jo knelt beside her, murmuring things too quiet to hear. April joined her, face a mask of concern. 

Jen wanted to move too, close in on Mal and keep her safe and warm and okay, but she felt numb. She pulled Ripley close, squeezing her hard. 

“I just-,” Mal gasped. Her fingers dug into her scalp, and April gently pried them away. “He- they-,” She sobbed, rocking back and forth.

Jo’s face was grim. “That won’t happen to us,” she whispered. 

“It nearly did,” Mal choked.

“But it didn’t.” April’s voice had never been so soft. “It didn’t, Mal.”

It was then that Jen moved, slow and robotic. She folded herself into Mal, hugging her and ignoring the wetness of her cheeks. 

The others joined, a breathing mass of solemn relief, and they all cried, a little. They held each other close, and for that instant, no lies were told. Nobody was under the pretense that anything was even slightly okay.

But they were still alive. Their lives were suddenly measured in days instead of years, and each minute seemed like a gift. They were still alive, and that’s what they would focus on.

-

Ripley ate her berries in silence, and Jen was worried. 

They’d scavenged up some food, mostly berries and nuts, and April had chased a squirrel for ten minutes before it slipped away, much to the amusement of everyone else. It wasn’t great, but it would sustain them until they found more, and Jen was just grateful to have it. 

They were all a little quieter, more subdued, after finding the dead boy, and Jen couldn’t help but wonder how much more they could take of that sort of thing.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Jen said, sliding in next to Ripley. 

Ripley wrinkled her nose. “What are pennies?”

“It’s just a saying,” Jen said. She probably read way too much. “I’m asking what you’re thinking about.”

Ripley tilted her head, considering the question. “I’m thinking we should put up a sign by the lake.”

Jen hesitated. Ripley had good intentions, she was sure, but . . . “Why?”

“Because,” Ripley said. “We almost died. We would’ve, if Mal didn’t see the body. What if other kids die there? What if-,” she lowered her voice until it was almost a whisper. “What if Molly-,” she broke off, unable to go on, but Jen could feel her throat constrict anyway.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. What should we make a sign out of?”

Ripley picked up a handful of dirt, watching it spill through her fingers. “I dunno.”

“What are we talking about?” April popped up at Jen’s shoulder. “How amazing these berries are and how cool your friend April is for finding them?”

“Oh, definitely,” Jen said. “And also . . .” she hesitated.

“I want to make a sign to put by the lake and warn other tributes about it,” Ripley said. 

April rocked back on her heels, considering. “I think that’s a good idea. Let me go tell Jo and Mal about it.” Before Jen could say anything, she was gone.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea?” Ripley asked, and it was impossible to miss the worry in her voice. 

Jen smiled. “I do,” she said. “I just think we should talk about it.”

Ripley watched her for a moment, before nodding. “Okay.” 

Jo came trampling through the grass about then. “I heard we’re making a sign.”

Mal and April followed her, both smiling. It was pretty clear to Jen that there wasn’t much to discuss.

And how could she explain to those four grinning girls that she was worried about how the sponsors would feel about it? How could she admit that she was willing to let other tributes die in such a horrible way just so they would look good? 

Nobody had ever done that kind of thing before. Things that nobody had ever done before automatically made Jen nervous. 

“Jen.” Jo’s voice was hesitant. “I know you think people might not like it, but someone died in that lake. We can prevent other people from dying, too.”

Every death was closer to their win. She felt horrible for even thinking it.

Ripley’s hands closed around hers. The size difference was amazing. “I think we need to save people,” she said, and Jen nodded, not quite trusting her voice.

-

Ripley took the stick and dragged it carefully through the dirt. It had been unanimously decided that she would be the one to write the warning. It only seemed right.

“Don’t step any closer than that,” Jen called. Ripley could never be too careful around the lake. 

Ripley paused, reading over her words. “I think this is good. Jen?”

In tall letters scratched into the dirt, Ripley had written, _This lake is filled with killer fish don’t go in it please and thank you._

“My grandma always told me to be polite,” Ripley said. “I don’t know if anyone will pay attention, though.”

Jo squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sure they will.”

“Hard to ignore that,” Mal said, glancing at the message. “Can we please leave the death lake now?”

“I am in favor of that,” April said. “You know, I bet I could catch a rabbit.”

Jo groaned. Ripley giggled. 

Jen shrugged. “You’re welcome to try,” she said. They could probably use a good laugh.


	13. The Can't Stand the Heat Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The creation and upkeep of fire is an important life skill, and one that will serve anyone who takes time out of their day to learn it well._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit early, but I won't be around this weekend and I felt bad about missing the last two.
> 
> Warning for fantastical and graphic descriptions of death and violence in a dream.

Night came quicker than Jen was used to in the arena. They curled around each other again, like a pile of puppies or similarly adorable animals. Nobody spoke. They all were watching, waiting for the nightly death count.

The faces were fewer that night, but there were still so many of them. They saw the boy from the lake. He was from District Five. For a moment, they all bowed their heads, silently respecting him. 

They looked up again in time to see District Five melt into District Nine.

Molly was okay. Molly was alive. Wherever she was, she was surviving. She’d made it through her second day, and surely they would find each other soon. Surely.

That was the worst thing, probably. Not knowing if she was alive or dead until the list each night, and even then having no idea if she was injured or starving or what. Molly could be anywhere, doing anything, on the brink of death, even, and Jen had no way of knowing.

“Well,” Jo said quietly, as the last face faded from the sky. “We survived another day.”

“Molly did, too,” Mal said, and there was an unmistakable note of pride in her voice. “I knew she would. Molly’s super tough.”

“I’m taking first watch tonight,” Jo said. “Don’t even bother arguing about it, Jen.”

Jen opened her mouth, then closed it again. She really was exhausted, and she’d be no good to anyone dead on her feet. “Whatever you say,” she said. “Wake me up in three hours for second watch.”

“Except I get second watch,” April jumped in. “You’re going to sleep through tonight whether you like it or not.”

Ripley’s arms wrapped around Jen’s waist from behind. “Don’t be mad, Jen!” she said. “We want you to sleep so you’re not a zombie.”

“I’m not mad,” Jen said. “I’m just very good at avoiding zombification.”

Mal snorted from where she was lying. “Accept that we’re not letting you take guard duty tonight. Just accept it.”

Jen rolled her eyes. “I’ll try,” she said. 

“We’ll wake you up if anything goes even remotely wrong,” April reassured her. “If a bird’s even flying funny, we’ll wake you up.”

“Of course you will!” Jen said. “Birds flying in a strange way could imply some amount of radiation or an incoming disaster. Forewarning is everything, you know.”

“Right,” Jo said soothingly. “We can do this, Jen. You don’t have to worry about us.”

“I know,” Jen muttered, and she did. Her girls were smart and capable and could definitely keep watch, but if something went wrong.

“It’s okay, Jen!” Ripley chirped, and Jen laughed a little.

“All right,” she said. “You’ve got me. Look, I’m lying down. See me lie down? Now my eyes are closed. I’m going to sleep. Everyone see me going to sleep?”

Jo snickered quietly. “How about the rest of you follow Jen’s marvelous lead?”

“Good idea, Jo,” Jen said, eyes still closed. “I am an amazing role model.”

She felt the weight of Ripley leaning into her, and smiled.

-

Jen considered herself very lucky in many respects, and very unlucky in many others.

The inevitable nightmares fell into the second category, or perhaps the first, because she’d managed to avoid them before then.

In her dream, everything was blurry at the edges, and various shades of red. She saw Ripley first, hanging upside-down from a tree. 

At first, she almost laughed, because that was definitely the sort of thing Ripley did all the time, especially during training, but then she looked closer and had to stifle a scream.

Ripley’s face was slack and soaked in blood. She was tied up with ropes slick with engine grease. Animals- the squirrel April had chased, some of the birds, too- were calmly nibbling at her face. She was crying, Jen realized. She was dead, but her eyes were wide open, and tears flowed from them.

April had been dragged to a corner. Her eyes were shut, at least, but fish from the lake squirmed on each of her hands and feet, teeth sinking deep into her soft skin. Her neck was craned at an odd angle, as if she was trying to hold her head above violent water.

Jo had been leaned carelessly against a tree. She was bursting with gears, as if stuffed with them. From every inch of skin, wires poked out, tangled and colorful and soaked through with blood. A couple of them sparked dangerously.

Mal and Molly were together, hands entwined, as if they’d died holding each other. Vines wrapped around them, tight and pulsing. Each of their necks had been encircled countless times, and the vines were still growing, out of their eyes and mouths and noses, almost completely covering their faces.

Jen stumbled back, screaming. Cannons flared and echoed, resonating in her mind. Rosie’s leering face appeared in the sky, hissing at her, asking why she had ever allied herself with them in the first place.

And then heat- wave after wave of horrible heat, with smoke clotting the air. Jen covered her face, letting it swallow her. They would find her eventually, melded into the arena. 

Rosie shook her head. She opened her mouth, and spoke in Jo’s voice. “Jen! Jen!”

One of the fish detached itself from April’s hand, leaving a glistening stump. “Jen, wake up!” It sounded like Mal.

She opened her eyes to smoke.

She was awfully used to smoke. Eighteen years in District Eight, where there was always, always smoke, had gotten her used to a burning throat, watery eyes, and a constant cough. 

She had thought she had escaped the smoke.

Maybe she couldn’t ever escape the smoke.

“Jen!” Someone hauled her to her feet. She stumbled, and found herself staring into April’s wide, worried eyes.

She glanced up. Fire swirled and crackled, sparks escaping into the night. A wall of fire, heading right to them. 

“Go!” she croaked. Her voice was hoarse. “Run, run, run!”

They did, sprinting as one, all leaning against each other. The terrific heat of the inferno slapped at Jen’s cheeks, and she ran, ran as hard and fast as she could.

Ripley stumbled, and Jen pulled her up. They were slowing down. They couldn’t run forever, and the fire seemed to only be getting bigger.

“Here!” April grabbed Ripley’s arm and hoisted her up for a piggyback ride. “That okay, Rip?”

Ripley didn’t answer. Her eyes were round and wide, amber flames reflected in them. 

Jen coughed into her fist, alarmed at how rapidly the smoke had covered the whole sky. “Come on!” she choked out, and they kept running, running-

“Hey, wait.” Jo skidded to a stop. “Look.”

Jen did, and she couldn’t believe her eyes. The fire was receding. It no longer roared and rose like a living thing. Its long, slim fingers were slowing down, lowering to a spark. As they watched, speechless, the fire dropped to the size of a campfire, merrily crackling and coughing sparks into the sky. None of the trees or plants showed any signs of burning. They didn’t look like they’d been touched by the flames at all.

Suddenly, Mal twisted around and broke into a run, dashing straight towards the little fire, eyes wide and spooked like she’d seen a ghost.

“Mal!” April hissed, and the others gave chase.

Mal leapt into a little clearing, running for a sooty figure hidden amongst the trees. They backed up, and Mal went faster, throwing her arms around them with all her might.

It was Molly. She had soot and dirt streaking her face, and her hair had fallen loose of the braid Jen had become accustomed of seeing, but she was Molly, and she was in one piece and okay, and she was squeezing Mal just as hard.

“Molly!” Ripley shrieked, tearing forward, batting away branches with her hands. “Molly- ooh!”

Ripley skidded to a halt, eyes wide and filled with wonder. The furry nose of some sort of animal was poking out from underneath Molly’s hair, sniffing around. 

They flocked around Molly, who reached up into her hair and pulled out a raccoon, squinting at them with suspicious, dark eyes. 

“This is my little friend,” Molly said, and her voice was quiet. “He helped me out a lot.”

Ripley beamed. “He’s so cute!” 

Jen wrapped Molly in a bear hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

“Me too,” Molly said, voice muffled by Jen’s shoulder. “Hey, listen- I’m really sorry about going to the Cornucopia. I know we agreed not to, and it was stupid of me.”

“It’s okay,” Jo said. “We’re together now.”

“I did get this, though,” Molly said, pulling out a thin golden bow. “Cool, right?”

“Massively,” Mal said. “Thank Kiera Maerson you’re all right!”

If she was crying, nobody mentioned it. They were all crying, a little. It had seemed so hopeless. Every day they had woken up thinking that it would be the day that Molly died, alone and scared, that it would be the night that her face lit up the sky. 

And now she was there, hugging Mal tight and crying until her face was covered in sooty, dirty tears.

Ripley held out her hands for the raccoon, who jumped right over, making himself comfortable. Ripley hugged him to her chest, reminding Jen rather painfully of a certain stuffed unicorn that had not made it into the arena. 

“Does he have a name, Molly?” Ripley asked. “He needs a name.”

Molly looked over. She smiled, although it was small and sad. “Why don’t you give him one?”

“Bubbles,” Ripley said, without a trace of doubt in her voice. “His name will be Bubbles.”

“Sounds good to me.” Mal and Molly broke apart, and Molly moved over to Ripley. 

“We’re not going to kill him, right?” Ripley turned worried eyes to Jen. “We can’t kill him. He’s Molly’s friend.”

Jen chewed her lower lip. She was supposed to be the sensible one, the one that provided food and shelter and safety, prioritizing those things above all. Happiness did not come first in the Hunger Games.

Still, they were kids. They were kids who were scared, kids who needed each other to survive, kids who needed what little comfort they could find. If Bubbles was that comfort, who was she to argue? They had found each other, finally. Everything was going to be okay.

“Raccoon meat has close to no nutrients,” she lied. “I guess we’d better keep him.”

The look on Ripley’s face was enough to solidify her decision.

They went scavenging again later that day, and this time they were far from quiet. There were stories to be told, after all.

Molly talked quietly, slowly gaining confidence. She’d found shelter, hidden out in a tree, and crossed her fingers. She’d found Bubbles, and she knew she couldn’t shoot him.

“I’m handy with a bow,” she said, picking her way over a cluster of rocks. “I can’t hunt, though. I’m a terrible survivalist.”

That seemed to be enough to require a Surprise Attack Hug from Ripley, and then Jo told about their little camp, about the lake and the sign. She spoke in careful words, and she did not talk about the horrific bloodiness of the lake, the enormous claw that reached down from the heavens to pluck the boy’s limp, wet form from the placid water.

“Wow,” Molly said at the end. “I’m glad you made the sign.”

“I made it!” Ripley said. “They helped, though,” she added.

Molly’s response was cut off by a soft rustling in a nearby bush. Jen leapt instinctively before her girls, dropping into a fighting stance. 

A rabbit emerged from the bush, and a collective sigh of relief seemed to escape into the air. 

Molly pushed to the front of the group. Her bow was held out in front of her, arrow stretched tight and ready to fly. Her hands shook almost imperceptibly, but her aim was steady.

“Molly-,” Jen started, unsure what she should say. 

The arrow cut through the air, silent and swift, before piercing the velvet fur of the animal, which dropped immediately.

April hurried over, rolling the rabbit onto its back. She pulled the arrow out with all the efficiency of a girl who had hooked fish her whole life, and then she slung the kill over one shoulder. Her shirt became spotted with blood, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Mal wrapped an arm around Molly’s shoulders. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Molly said. “Yeah, I am.”

Fire was just about the most dangerous thing they could do just then, so Jen carefully roasted the rabbit over a bed of hot coals. Ripley helped, although she kept looking away from the animal’s lifeless eyes. 

When they ate, it was in silence. Ripley tore a tiny hunk from her portion and tossed it to Bubbles, who had proved himself perfectly adept at finding his own food, but seemed to appreciate the offering nonetheless. 

Night rolled in seamlessly, pulling and twisting at shadows to make them seem taller and scarier than ever. They worked out a nightwatch schedule in the dirt, arguing quietly and eventually compromising. It was arranged so that Molly got a full night’s sleep, and Jen curled up feeling perhaps not quite happy, but something close to it. Here were her girls, all of them, and not a single face that they recognized appeared in the sky that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is to prove that I still love you all.


	14. Robyn Hood Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Although many consider archery a dead skill, it has a number of uses. All Lumberjanes should practice with a bow and arrow._

“And pull back the string, and . . . release!”

The arrow lodged in a nearby tree, about fifteen feet away from her target. Jen lowered the bow and frowned.

It felt awkward and heavy in her hands, an unnecessary weight that she didn’t know how to use. The gold glinted teasingly in the sun, and she couldn’t help but think that every tribute for miles around must be able to see the flare.

Molly winced a little. “Good for a first try.”

Jen bit back a sigh, hefting the bow a little higher up. “How did you learn?” She locked in on the target- a smiley face painted on a tree- and aimed.

Molly ignored the question. “Throw back your shoulders a little more.”

Jen did as she was told. “Are you teaching me the way you were taught?”

“I wasn’t taught,” Molly said, “so no. I’m not a great teacher. See how this one goes.”

Jen lets go of the string, watching the arrow fall short and clatter to the ground in front of the tree.

“Your aim was good, at least.” Mal hopped off the rock she’d been perched on, watching the lesson, and hurried over to get the arrow. “I guess you need more force.”

Molly smiled at her. “Exactly right. Jen, you need a little more force.”

“Okay.” Jen rolled her aching shoulders. “Should we try something else for now?”

“Yeah!” Ripley bounced up from the interesting spot of moss she’d been examining. “Everyone line up for Tree Climbing 101 with Ripley!” 

Jen laughed, smoothing back her hair. “What will you teach us?”

Ripley placed her hands on her hips. “Tree climbing, duh.”

Jo and April joined the rest of the group. Jo craned her neck and shielded her eyes, looking up into the twisting branches.

“It looks kind of unsafe,” she said. 

Ripley laughed. “Unsafe is just another word for _majorly fun._ Hey, I’ll race you all!”

Quick as anything, she vaulted onto the lowest branch, shimmying her way up. “I’m winning!” she called down.

April grabbed the branch, pulling herself onto it with an impressive amount of upper-body strength. “Not for long, you’re not!”

Jen was content just to sit and watch in the shade as the girls dashed up the tree. They really were ready for anything, she thought. They never failed to amaze her.

It had been Jo’s idea to teach each other important skills learned in the Districts. Occasionally, the Games were rigged, requiring specific tasks taught in certain Districts. It seemed important to share the knowledge, as part of the alliance.

Thus far, they’d had archery with Molly, a quick lesson on food from Mal, and a robotics discussion from Jo. April would teach them how to make nets, but swimming lessons were on hold until they found a non-deadly body of water.

Jen liked it a lot, the whole premise of sharing knowledge. It made them seem more like an alliance. Sharing seemed to calm everyone’s nerves, doing something productive and valuable. There was only so much time they could spend twiddling their thumbs and waiting for people to find them before they went crazy. 

Bubbles settled into Jen’s lap, and she stroked him absentmindedly. This was good. This was okay. She could do this.

Ripley launched down from the lowest branch, arms spread as if to catch the wind. “Jen! I won!” she crowed, landing in a crouch.

“Good job!” Jen shielded her eyes, squinting into the uppermost branches. “You know, the spirit is to teach those who don’t know, not beat them.”

Ripley grabbed Bubbles, holding him up to the sun. “I did teach them. This is the test.”

“Ah.” Jen watched Molly scramble down, hopping from branch to branch like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Are they passing?”

“They’re good students,” Ripley said happily. 

Jen laughed, raising a hand in a lazy wave to Molly, who grinned. “Maybe you’re a good teacher.”

Ripley beamed, playing with Bubbles’ paws. “Hey, yeah! Molly! I’m a good teacher!”

Molly stumbled over, hair flying out of her messy braid. “Absolutely you are. A total pro.” She and Ripley did the strange fist bump thing that all districts other than Eight seemed to do. 

“HOLY MAE JEMISON! I’M GOING TO DIE!” Mal screeched. She was in a precarious position, half-dangling off a thin branch.

Molly sprinted over. “I’ve got you!” she shouted, grasping the lowest branch and vaulting herself up. 

Ripley smiled in a secretive way. “Molly’s a good climber,” she said.

Jen glanced over, puzzled. “She did grow up in District Seven.”

Ripley nodded, watching the tree pensively. 

April dropped to the ground, bringing a shouting Jo with her. Jo brushed pine needles from her hair, looking distinctly nettled. 

“That was fun!” April dusted off her hands. “Wasn’t it fun, Jo?”

Jo snorted. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Loads of fun, right up until you decided to pull me off my branch and fling me to the ground.”

April laughed, slinging an arm over Jo’s shoulders. “If I go down, you’re going down with me. You know how it goes.”

Jen saw the flash of a grin on Jo’s face, although she didn’t think April did before Jo tackled her to the ground. 

“Ack!” April laughed in little bursts, face red. “Oh, now you’re asking for it!”

They rolled around on the ground, laughing in a sort of chaotic tandem. It didn’t take long for them to right themselves, brushing each other off and offering ear-splitting grins as truce. 

“Here!” Molly hopped down to the ground again, holding her arms out for Mal. “Just jump!”

Mal coughed. “Are you sure-,”

“Yeah.” Molly’s smile was warm and welcoming. “Trust me, okay?”

Mal took a deep breath and jumped.

Jen didn’t see the whole thing, but when she looked up again, Mal and Molly were a tangle of limbs and laughter, faces red as the manufactured sunset.

“Need a hand?” Ripley hopped off her little rock, setting Bubbles gently on the ground. 

Molly waved her off, leaning against a nearby tree, but Mal accepted her hand.

Jen succumbed to the laughter before long, stretching her legs out and submerging herself in the moment. The sun seemed especially warm, and the bow leaned against a rock, forgotten.

“We’re okay,” April said, tracing flowery designs on her leg. “We’re actually okay. It’s hard to believe.”

Jo closed her eyes. “We’re okay,” she echoed, voice brimming with exhausted relief. “We’re okay for now.”

“For now’s all we need,” Ripley said, swinging her legs. “Right, Jen?”

“Right,” Jen said, also content to feel the sheer relief of being alive. “We’ll plan later.”

“Later,” Mal murmured. “I like that idea.”

It was then that the soft, sweet tune carried down from the treetops, half-blown away with the wind. They stared at each other, hardly daring to believe it.

“I’ve got it,” Ripley said, rocketing to her feet and starting for the tree. “I’ve got it, guys.”

They watched her scale the slick bark like it was nothing, carefully untangling the parachute from the branches. They hardly dared to breathe as she slid back down, prize clutched in one sweaty fist. 

She opened it to reveal folds of silver cloth covering a small box. Jen tried to contain her disappointment at the size of the gift. Little things could be useful too, and it must have cost an awful lot, this far into the Games.

Ripley unwrapped it with trembling hands, revealing a fist-sized device, grey and old, with a little spigot attached to the end.

“It’s a water filter,” Jo said, immediately recognizing it. “That’ll be really useful.”

Jen picked it up, turning it over in her hands. How much must it have cost to send this? Whose mentor had chosen it? Whose district had paid for it? She knew that she shouldn’t be questioning such a good thing, but she couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable.

“We’re not going back to the death lake,” Mal said very calmly. “No amount of filtering will make it any less of a death lake.”

“There’s probably more water somewhere around here,” April said. “A river or something, I don’t know. What does the wildlife drink out of?”

“Hey,” Molly said, brows furrowing. “That’s a good question. Jen, do you know?”

Jen twisted a strand of hair around her finger, silently cursing herself for not thinking of that earlier. “I’m not sure, but it would be easy enough to find out.”

“Yeah!” Ripley hopped up and down. “Let’s go on an adventure!”

Jen exhaled slowly, staring up at the darkening sky through the twisted branches. “All right,” she said, tucking the water filter into her jacket. “Let’s go on an adventure.”

-

“I’m tired,” Ripley whispered into Mal’s hair. “Can we take a break?”

Mal hefted her a little higher. “Hang on, Rip. Almost there.”

Molly went in front, matching Jen’s long strides and helping her figure out what animals had been around recently. It was trickier than it looked. Jen liked to consider herself observant, but tracking long-forgone paths took a sharper eye than she had.

Jo elbowed April in the ribs a couple steps behind them. “Can you use your District Four powers to find us some water?”

April laughed, bouncing ahead and sticking her nose into the air. “That’s exactly how it works, Jo. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”

Molly stifled a laugh with her hand. “Do you have a chant or something?”

“Waterus findus!” April waved her hands through the sticky air, spreading her fingers apart. “Hydrus opticus! Do you think it’s working, Jen?”

“Try it again!” Jen called. 

“We’ll be able to hear it if we’re close,” Mal pointed out. “The rushing, swirling noise of merciless destruction.”

“Slow destruction,” Jo said. “Erosion hardly counts.”

Mal grinned. “Destruction is destruction. And it’s nearly always audible.”

They fell silent, six pairs of ears straining for the familiar whoosh of rushing water. 

Finally, April said, “I think we’re close.”

“This isn’t working,” Jo said at the same time, and Jen was inclined to believe both of them.

Ripley slid off of Mal’s back in one fluid movement. “Come on, soldiers!” she stage-whispered. “A watched pot never comes to those who wait.”

Mal blinked. “That . . . sort of makes sense? Despite everything?”

Ripley beamed, skipping over a root. “Of course it makes sense,” she said. “My abuela told me something like that, and she knows everything.”

She paused, tilting her head as if considering a very important matter, before smiling up to the sky and calling, “Hi, Abuela, if you’re watching! And everyone else, too! ‘Cept if Abuela’s takin’ her nap, tell her she knows everything for me, ‘kay? ‘Cause . . . ‘cause she does . . .” Ripley trailed off, swallowing. “And . . . and I hope you’re feeding Jonesy. If he misses me, tell him . . . tell him I’ll be back soon, okay? And that I love his scrunchy sweet face, and . . .” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she stood, staring up at an impassive sky. 

Jen doubled back, wrapping Ripley in her arms. She stroked Ripley’s hair, not quite as electric blue as it had once been, and wished that there were words for this moment, wished she could say that it would all be okay. 

Ripley had broken the biggest unspoken rule of the Games. She had spoken to the cameras. She had acknowledged the audience. Hot pressure built up behind Jen’s eyes all the same, and she held Ripley as if she could prevent the arena from swallowing her up.

“I’m sorry,” Ripley whispered into Jen’s wet shirt. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

Jen still could not find the words lodged in her throat, so she just held Ripley tighter and said nothing.

Mal leapt up onto a rock, face raised to the sky. “Mom, if you’re watching, I love you and our disagreements didn’t change any of that, okay? I know you were just trying to protect me.”

April joined her, lacing their hands together. “Dad, don’t shave off your beard, okay? I said I hated it, but I really love it. Don’t listen to past me; she lied sometimes. Water the plants, especially the one Mom loved so much.”

Jo couldn’t quite fit onto the rock, but she stood about as tall as April anyway. “Dad, Pops, I know what the gear is for. You always give really great advice. I was never embarrassed of you, okay? Never ever ever.”

Jen didn’t look up, and she didn’t release Ripley, but she spoke anyway, eyes squeezed shut, and let her voice carry into the small, rickety home that she loved so much she couldn’t breathe. “Mom, I know you’re proud of me and I love you. I miss you a lot, but continue my star charts if you can, and I want you to remarry if you find someone who makes you happy, for my sake.” She could picture her mother, all soft hands and lined eyes, crying quietly as she sat on the floor and watched the little TV in the corner of the house.

Maybe the Capitol wouldn’t broadcast what they said, out of spite or because some incredible battle was happening elsewhere at that very moment. Maybe her words would never reach her mom, and maybe none of their words would ever reach anyone but mentors and Gamemakers, but she needed to pretend, at least for a little bit, that her mom heard, that her mom understood.

Jen glanced over at Molly. Her hands were curled, nails biting into skin, and her shoulders were hunched. Her messy braid covered her face, but Jen realized that she was crying quietly, choked sobs rising and dissipating into the dusky air. 

Maybe she had words that she couldn’t say, too. Maybe those were her words.

Mal reached her first, wrapping an arm around her and leaning in. They sat like that for a while as Molly scrubbed her pink face with scraped knuckles and whispered things that only Mal could hear.

Jo looped an arm around April’s waist, and April responded with a hug, letting Jo rest her chin on her head.

They stood like that, all of them holding each other, frightened to let go, frightened to look up. Some of them cried, and some of them didn’t, and some of them wanted to. The six of them were inseparable, a tangle of excitement and laughter and widened eyes and ears ringing with cannons, and-

-and they could not lose. They could not, they would not, but there was no winning, and nothing they could do.

Jen spoke first, quiet and hoarse. “Let’s find the water tomorrow.”

April leaned her head against Jo’s chest, as if listening for a heartbeat, a reminder that they were indeed alive, for now. “Agreed.”

The filter was cold against Jen’s ribs. It felt so mechanical, so Capitol, although every cent that went into it was overflowing with love. How could they both exist in one object?

“Sleep,” Ripley said, voice barely a murmur. “Let’s sleep.”

They spread out along the base of the rock that they had stood atop just minutes before, fearless and infinite, screaming their goodbyes to the heavens. They didn’t talk, and Jen counted artificial stars in her head, losing count every so often and starting over. 

Not a single face shone among them. That should have relaxed Jen, but if anything, it only put her on edge. No kills for the day meant that tributes were running out, and it wouldn’t be long before someone came for them. Their luck couldn’t hold out forever.

Jo silently settled on top of the rock, moonlight creating a soft halo around her head. “I’ve got first watch,” she said, and no one argued.

Jen drifted into an uneasy sleep, thinking about constellations with weapons chasing each other across the sky in an endless hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol


	15. The Shot in the Dark Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Being a Lumberjane is about taking risks, albeit calculated ones. To earn this badge, do what you must to protect what you find important._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: death and its repercussions

Her dream was murky, filled with shadows and whispers and blurred edges. She floated along, trying to keep her head above water. She saw many things, but all from an aimless view, and she could pinpoint nothing specific.

She woke to screams. 

She sat up too fast, bumping her head against the rock. She crouched low, scanning the area. April was still asleep, and Jo was next to her. Ripley’s limbs were splayed in all directions as she snored lightly. Mal and Molly were nowhere to be seen. 

Jen dragged Ripley behind the rock with the others, hoping it would make an adequate hiding spot, and stood up.

The sky wasn’t bright yet. It must have been very early, and she could still see a couple stars, fading slowly. 

She felt as if she were moving in a body that was not her own. She was disoriented and alarmed, and running faster than she’d ever thought possible, ignoring the harsh sound of pine needles snapping under her feet. 

“Molly?” she whispered, too scared to yell. “Mal?”

“Up here.” Mal’s voice was very quiet but rimmed with panic.

Jen twisted around until she could see them, twisted together in the thick branches of a nearby tree. Molly’s hands were clamped over her ears, mouth wide in a silent scream.

Jen hurried forward, scanning the sky for whatever could have scared Molly so badly. She kicked something soft, and recoiled.

Her heart screeched to a stop. There was a body broken over the roots of the tree, a single golden arrow embedded in his chest. She understood everything very suddenly, and wished that she didn’t.

“Molly?” she called, using her calmest voice. “Molly, it’s okay. It’s okay. Come on down, all right? Nobody blames you. You weren’t in the wrong, here.”

Molly compacted tighter, squeezing herself into an even smaller ball.

“Molly.” Jen stepped over the boy carefully. He was very weedy, and looked maybe sixteen, and she couldn’t look at his glassy, glassy eyes. “You were protecting us.” She wished she was better at talking, here where she couldn’t hold Molly close and run a hand through her hair. She wished she had even the faintest idea what she could say to make this all okay.

She’d entered the arena prepared for the possibility that they all might die, but the other possibility had never occurred to her, perhaps most horrible- to survive, they would have to become killers.

“There are so many other things I could have done,” Molly whispered, and Jen had to strain to hear. “So many. I could’ve knocked him out. I could’ve- I could’ve reasoned with him.”

Jen spotted a knife on the ground, small and stained with blood. She grasped it, hilt slick and uncomfortable in her hand. She held it up for Molly to see. “Was he carrying this?”

She couldn’t see Molly’s face very well, nor could she hear the rattling breaths. She dropped the knife, letting it bounce off of a root and land next to its owner.

“He was,” Mal called down, and Jen wondered if she’d been there too or if she was just very good at telling what Molly was thinking. “Molly, he was, right?”

The knife looked very small, and Jen tried not to think of how much damage it could have done if not for an arrow slicing through the night.

“He would have killed us,” Jen said. Her fingers scraped against the bark, and she heaved herself onto the lowest branch. “I’m coming up, okay?”

Jen pushed herself a little higher until Mal could drop a hand down and help her, and then she was twisted awkwardly around a branch, and she could see Molly’s tears shining in the ashy dawn.

“He would have killed us,” Jen continued, voice low and serious. “He would have killed us all. He was going to. Don’t feel bad, okay? You saved all our lives.”

“I have to feel bad.” Molly’s nails dug into her arms, leaving small crescent-shaped marks on her skin. “I have to, I have to, Jen!” 

“Why?” Jen asked.

Molly didn’t answer. She grabbed her feet, squeezing them tight with white knuckles. 

“We get it,” Mal said. She reached out to touch Molly’s shoulder, but Molly flinched away, leaving Mal’s hand suspended in midair. “They- they turned us into killers. Even if we never kill anyone. It’s just- it’s just the Games, Molly.”

Molly squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s not the Games,” she said. “The Games didn’t make me do that. He had a family and a life, and I killed him. I have to be responsible for my actions.”

Jen swallowed. She wanted so badly to protect them, all of them. “Okay,” she said. “What do you want us to do?”

“I don’t know!” Molly cried. “I don’t- I don’t know.”

“Nobody blames you,” Mal said. Her hand still quivered, suspended. “Nobody will blame you. I promise you that any of the rest of us would have done it in your position.”

Molly buried her face in her hands. “That doesn’t make it right,” she said, voice muffled.

“It doesn’t,” Jen said. “Nothing can make it right. But it also isn’t right for you to blame yourself for taking your only option to save us.”

“What is right, then?” Molly said. 

“I don’t know,” Jen said. “Something, I’m sure. Not this.”

Jen heard a wobbly voice calling her name, and she looked down to see Ripley, awake and terrified. She must have woken up and seen everyone gone.

“We’re up here, Rip!” Mal called, and Ripley’s wet face rose slowly, brightening as she saw them. 

“I’m coming up!” she called, scampering over to the tree and scaling it with a speed that made Jen wish that she’d partaken in the lessons earlier. 

Jen grabbed her, steadying her. How many people could the thin branches hold? She didn’t particularly want to find out.

“I- oh.” Ripley’s face fell. “Don’t be sad, Molly! Don’t cry! Don’t-,” she broke off, sucking in her lips. “Do you want a hug?”

Molly smiled a little, eyes still heavy with unshed tears. “Not right now.”

“Okay!” Ripley looked anxious, like she wasn’t totally sure what to do. Jen could relate.

“Ripley,” Jen said quietly, placing a hand on her bony shoulder. “Why don’t you head down and take stock of our food situation? I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Okay,” Ripley said, sliding neatly down and landing in a crouch.

Jen wished that she could do more. She was supposed to be the oldest, the most responsible, the one everyone could look to. Now, Molly had suffered through something so large that Jen couldn’t even begin to help, and she felt strangely empty just watching her. 

Why had she ever thought that she could keep them all happy, laughing and smiling and whole and okay throughout the Games? 

“Molly-,” she started, but the words stuck in her throat and she swallowed them down. She opened her mouth and closed it again, and she picked her way down the tree feeling like a coward.

Ripley was waiting for her, rationing out pieces of food, mostly meat. Jen was slowly getting better at hunting, and they weren’t quite as worried about food as they once had been. 

“I found berries,” Ripley said, holding out a purple-stained hand. “Are they poisonous?”

Jen glanced at them. “No,” she said. “Save them for later.”

“Okay.” Ripley counted them under her breath, before placing the sticky pile among the other food. 

They fell into silence, both watching the tree. Mal was talking to Molly, but the words were too soft to be heard from the ground.

“She’ll be okay,” Jen said softly, although there was no way to know. “She just needs a while.”

Ripley didn’t respond. There was only so much they could deal with, and murder wasn’t on the list, even if it was totally justified.

“You’re not scared of her, are you?” Jen asked, heart sinking. Nothing would tear Molly apart more than the knowledge that she frightened her own alliance.

“No!” Ripley said. She looked like she couldn’t fathom such a thing. “No. Molly did it for a good reason. I want her to be happy.”

Jen brushed Ripley’s hair aside, tucking it behind her ears. “We all do.”

“But if she’s not happy, that’s okay too,” Ripley hastened to add. “She doesn’t have to be happy.”

“Right,” Jen said. “I think you should wake up April and Jo, and then we should wait until Molly comes down of her own accord and go foraging.”

“Not hunting,” Ripley begged. “Please not hunting.”

Jen glanced at the bow, forgotten on the ground. The arrow next to it had dried blood coating the tip. “No hunting,” she agreed. “Just berries and nuts.”

Ripley scampered off to wake the rest of the alliance, and Jen settled in, watching the trees. Mal was good at this. She and Molly seemed strengthened together, always knowing what to say and trading little, soft touches.

Jen froze. A suspicion began to prickle in her mind, growing larger. 

Oh. Oh. That . . . made a good deal of sense, actually.

She smiled despite herself. Of course she would never mention it until they did, but they were sure to be good for each other. 

Ripley arrived, April and Jo on her heels. The three of them fanned out at Jen’s feet, brows drawn in concern.

Jen swallowed, unsure if she should give them the bare facts or let Molly say however much she wanted to. Ripley beat her to the punch, however.

“Molly’s not okay,” she said solemnly.

April and Jo nodded, understanding in their eyes, and a hot, dull pressure formed beneath Jen’s eyelids. God, when would they get the privilege of being okay? Even if they won, and they couldn’t win, not all of them, they couldn’t hope to be okay ever again. She hated, hated, hated the thought of Ripley growing to be like Rosie, forced to return to a city she hated and prep kids like her for the slaughter, pretending disaffect. It could happen to any of them, a future they fought so hard for and didn’t want.

April and Jo were observant. They could see the boy’s broken body that nobody could do anything with; they could see the bloody arrows and Molly panicking into Mal’s shirt. They had surely put two and two together. Had they prepared for this moment, learning that one of their number had been forced to kill for the first time? Had they practiced empty words of comfort like Jen had? How did a child steel herself for that sort of trauma?

Jen averted her gaze, turning it instead to the tree. Molly and Mal slid down, one branch at a time, clinging to each other like life preservers. Mal’s hand was sweaty in Molly’s as they eased their way to the ground, and there was something pinched and drawn in the skin below Molly’s eyes. 

They held on, and when they dropped, they didn’t let go.


	16. The Claws and Effect Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Working with animals requires a special skill set. To earn this badge, a Lumberjane must have the patience and dedication necessary to train a pet._

Jen was no stranger to stress. In fact, she liked to consider them best friends.

Still, game was growing steadily scarcer, her girls had fallen silent, and people were sure to notice that six tributes were wandering together through the woods without very many survival or combat skills. She wasn’t totally sure how many tributes were left, to be honest, and she cursed herself for that.

“Does anyone know where we are?” Jo asked, the first person to speak in over an hour.

“We’ve got no way of knowing if the arena’s even the same as it was the first day,” April said. “The Gamemakers like to mix things up, remember?”

Jen seized on this conversation topic. “Our only real landmarks are the lake and the Cornucopia,” she said. “If we could find one of them, we would have a better idea of things.”

“No death lake!” Mal called over her shoulder. “We are not going back to the death lake.”

“The Cornucopia’s a bad idea, too,” Jo said. “The Careers have probably staked out the entire area. We don’t want to cross them until we absolutely have to.”

“Okay,” Jen said. “Then we’ll find a new landmark. And water, hopefully. That would be lovely.”

She directed the last comment towards the sky, which remained impassive.

“Water!” Ripley agreed with enough enthusiasm for Jen to know that the poor girl was probably parched but didn’t want to complain. “Let’s do that.”

“Back to square one,” Molly muttered. “Okay, uh, water. Let’s find-,”

Bubbles cut her off with a long, low growl. He’d taken up permanent residence on her head after the events of the previous night, and Jen had never felt more grateful towards a raccoon.

Jen froze, dropping into a defensive position. If Molly’s incredible pet could sense other tributes, they should be gearing up for a fight with no weapons but a bow and arrows that only one person could use and a tiny dagger that wouldn’t do much damage.

She hated to admit it, but their chances weren’t good.

She was ready for a person to step through the thick brush, maybe a Career or one of the forgotten others, beating the odds.

Instead, a clear, detached voice echoed from every corner of the sky, every nook and crevice of the forest around them.

“Attention all tributes,” it said. “President Snow has declared a Feast. Nine bags have been placed by the Cornucopia, each labeled with a district. Each bag contains what that tribute needs the most. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

-

“We can’t go,” Mal said immediately. “We can’t go, we just can’t. It’s a death trap.”

“We haven’t been able to find any water in days, though,” Jo reasoned. “Food, medical supplies . . . other tributes aren’t the only things that could kill us.”

Jen was rapidly growing to hate the word _kill,_ but she swallowed down her discomfort. “It sounds like a bad idea to me. Supplies we can find or make, but we aren’t good fighters. If it comes to that, we’ll lose.”

Nobody argued with that. They’d trained and trained, but it was a miracle that they’d made it this far.

“Stealth is our best option, then.” Mal crouched in the dirt, drawing complicated symbols with one smudged finger. “If we come in here and here . . .”

“Won’t they have people positioned?” April asked.

“There’s only three of them.” Molly stroked Bubbles gently. He’d taken up residence on her head again and seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly, ignorant of the chaos around him. “And we don’t know if they’re all in an alliance.”

“Let’s see.” Jo ticked off on her fingers. “District One boy and District Two girl, who are definitely allied. My district partner, who might not be a Career, but she’s ruthless and will take any chance she gets to kill us. They’re probably spread out, although one or two of them could have been killed already.”

“Have we worked with stealth?” Jen asked, only to be met with empty gazes. Of course. There were too many things to learn in the Training Center. How could they have gotten to them all? “Never mind.”

“We need a really good idea,” Mal said. “Everyone’s expecting us to do one of two things, but if we do something else, it’ll be surprising and endearing.”

“I’m all for that,” April said, “but the only problem is that we don’t exactly have another idea.”

Ripley leapt to her feet, rocking back on her heels. “Let’s be creative!” she said, causing Jen to wince at the volume. “We’re good at that, right Jen?”

Jen glanced up, startled. She’d been impressed with how well the discussion had been coming without her input. It was strange to be suddenly called back into focus. “Right,” she said. “You five are the most creative people I know. You’ll figure something out.”

Ripley beamed at her, retaking her spot in the circle. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, we’ll figure something out. Won’t we, Bubbles?”

Bubbles did not dignify that with a response. Molly smiled and reached up to stroke him.

“Wait.” Jo sat up suddenly. “Wait, wait. Wait.”

“What?” April said. “What, what? What?”

“One second.” Jo stood up and started pacing, muttering to herself. They all watched her, eager and excited. They trusted Jo to save them.

Jo stopped suddenly and closed her eyes, rocking back on her heels. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. Molly, how easy would it be to train Bubbles?”

Molly’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know. He’s pretty smart.”

“Whoa,” Mal said. “Are you saying-?”

“Yes,” Jo said. “Yes, I am saying. I am saying that we get Bubbles to get the packs for us.”

April started laughing, leaning backwards onto the dead grass. Once she got going, everyone else did too, and it took a while to calm down. They lay there, smiling up at the sky, emboldened by the ridiculousness of the only plausible plan they had.

“This is going to crash and burn,” Mal said. “Crash. And. Burn.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Molly said. “I think we can do it. Bubbles, what do you think?”

Bubbles chirped disdainfully, which set them all off again.

When the clearing quieted at last, everyone was looking at Jen.

She swallowed, glancing at Bubbles, curled atop Molly’s head. He was smart; she had seen that firsthand again and again, but he was an animal. They couldn’t risk their lives on the behavior of a forest critter. Oh, what would Rosie say? Would she laugh and tell them to go for it? Would she shake her head and mutter about how it was a wonder they’d managed to stay alive for so long?

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t suppose anybody has a different idea?”

“We could camouflage him,” April said. “I bet the Careers wouldn’t even notice him. Raccoons are like, genetically engineered to be stealthy.”

Jen wasn’t sure about the science behind that, but she had to admit that Bubbles had a better chance to get away unspotted than any of them.

The plan was sounding less preposterous by the second, which was worrying.

She sighed. “All right,” she said. “Teach the raccoon to save our lives. Why not. I mean, it’s not like it would be the weirdest thing we’ve done.”

“That’s the spirit!” Ripley cheered.

-

“Hold- still!” April grunted. Her fingers were smeared with green and brown, which she was trying to apply to a squirming Bubbles.

“We can’t teach him to recognize numbers,” Jo said. “We don’t have enough time.”

“He’ll get food, I think,” Molly said. “I don’t know what else, but he’s got a good nose.”

“Can we get him to come back to us?” Mal traced circles in the dirt with one finger. “That’s really what we need.”

“Bubbles will always come back!” Ripley cheered. She picked him up and danced him around, much to April’s exasperation. “He’s the smartest raccoon in the world!”

“Ripley, keep the paint on the animal, okay?” Jen smiled down at Bubbles, who looked confused, to say the least. Ripley’s total confidence in their plan was infectious.

“I really, really don’t see how this is going to work,” Mal complained. “I mean, we probably could’ve thought of a better plan in the time it’s taken us to paint Bubbles.”

Molly laughed and hugged Mal’s shoulders. “C’mon, have a little faith in us!”

“There is NO BETTER PLAN,” April said. “This is going FANTASTICALLY.” There were paint smudges all up and down her face.

Ripley giggled. “Maybe Bubbles is camouflaging you!”

“I think that’s definitely what’s happening here,” Jen said.

Every single one of her girls was smiling. Really, it didn’t matter if they could teach a raccoon to fetch or not.

-

“You are ready, young grasshopper,” April said seriously. “Go out into the world and use your skills.”

Ripley bounced up and down, twisting her arms behind her back to avoid petting Bubbles, who was still wet with paint.

Mal crouched to raccoon eye level. “Do not ruin this for us, you understand?”

Bubbles chirped what was (hopefully) an affirmative, and then Molly picked him up and carried him just to the edge of the forest.

The Cornucopia, gleaming and strong in the sunlight, stood just out of reach, as tall and proud as the tributes guarding it. They were in perfect formation, weapons at the ready, teeth bared.

Molly stopped, face ashen. Mal hurried forward and squeezed her hand. Molly took a deep breath, and let Bubbles go.

He darted immediately out to the podiums holding the bags. He slipped easily between the shadows, finally pausing at the foot of the nearest ledge.

Carefully, slowly, he pulled the bag down with his teeth.

Molly clasped her hand over her mouth. Jo started shaking slightly, grabbing onto a nearby branch for support. Ripley bunched up the fabric of Jen’s shirt in her sweaty fist.

Bubbles dragged the bag silently along to the next one and then pulled that one down, too. The Careers still hadn’t looked at him.

Holding both bags firmly in his mouth, he started to trot back to the forest at a leisurely pace.

“No!” April hissed. “Run!”

“Hey,” one of the boys said. “A raccoon.”

Mal curled over, eyes wide.

The girl nearest him laughed. “Should we shoot it?”

No, no, no, no. They could deal with losing their supplies, but Bubbles was part of their family. If he was killed . . .

“Showing off again?” the boy said. “We don’t need its dirty meat.”

“Ha!” the girl barked. “It’s taking the bags of that damn alliance!”

“Good raccoon,” the boy said. “Good, good raccoon.”

Jen breathed for what felt like the first time in hours.

Bored with Bubbles’s antics, the pair lapsed back into silence, and Bubbles picked up the pace, running straight into Molly’s waiting arms.

“Good raccoon,” Mal said, mimicking the District One boy. “Good, good raccoon.”

Ripley laughed, flinging her arms wide. “Jen, look!” she whispered. “We did it!”

Jen stroked Bubbles’ matted fur with one finger. “Heck yes we did.”

Jo started opening the bags. “He really is the smartest raccoon in the world,” she said, holding up a couple packages of nuts and dried meat.

“Burn ointment!” April said, diving into the next pack. “Any of us have burns?”

“Only my burning desire to sleep,” Molly said.

Mal laughed and elbowed her. “My burning love for our crazy plan.”

“Jen’s burning curiosity!” Ripley shouted, and Jen winced.

“My burning ears,” she said.

“You are all the lamest people I’ve ever met,” April said.

“Ooh,” Jo said. “Burn.”

April tackled her. They went down laughing, dust on their cheeks, sun in their eyes, and a glimmer of hope in the set of their shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case anyone wants a visual: https://www.tenor.co/view/peralta-b99-ssh-quiet-sneaky-gif-5120510


	17. The Moves Like Dagger Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Knives can be useful tools, but are also important in a fight. Understanding how to use one is a staple of a Lumberjane's experience._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title in honor of dabs being canon
> 
> warning for blood, death, self-hatred, and minor suicidal thoughts

Mal drew a quivering line in the dirt. “I just- I don’t know.”

Molly squeezed her shoulders. “We trust you.”

“If we stay here-,” Mal started, then shook her head. “We should keep moving, right?”

April squinted from between sunlit chinks of hair, angled awkwardly across Jo’s torso. “We can’t run forever.”

A sharp pain in her scalp brought Jen back to reality. “Careful,” she said, one hand drifting up to protect her hair from Ripley’s fingers. She hadn’t seen a brush in ages and was beginning to question the sense in letting Ripley braid it.

“Sorry,” Ripley said. “Do you think the District One boy and the District Two girl are friends?”

“Probably not,” Jen said. “Their alliance isn’t like ours, remember.” Still, a nagging corner of her mind supplied an image of them laughing together, teenagers on top of the damn world. They’d gotten this far, but surely they knew that only one of them could go home.

“I vote we end it,” Jo said. “There are more of us than them, especially if one kills the other. Stay here, let them come for us, and be ready when they do.”

An uneasy silence settled over the group. There was certain finality to Jo’s words that none of them were quite ready for, acknowledgment that however this stupid game ended, it was going to end, and it was looking like it would end soon, with twenty-three cannons and money trading hands in the Capitol.

“So if we stay here . . .” Mal said, crouching down to draw a few trees in rough correlation to each other, “. . . and we position ourselves here, here, and here. . .”

“What if someone comes from this direction?” Jen asked. She crawled forward to place a twig on the ground, much to Ripley’s dismay.

“We can’t predict which way they’ll come from,” Jo said. Her eyes were closed and her forearms had dug into the dirt. “We need to be able to get them no matter what.”

Bored with Jen’s hair, Ripley scooted over to the bags, which lay mostly forgotten on Molly’s other side. She pulled the one marked with a bold **4** until it touched the corners of her knees and started to poke through it.

“I’ve seen them move, though,” April said. She shifted her weight, drawing a soft “oof” from Jo. “They’re both crazy fast. No way we could catch either of them without their spotting us first.”

“Guys!” Ripley interrupted, flinging herself into the middle of their semicircle. Dust curled up against her clothes like some sort of ignition. “Look!”

Curled tight in her hands were several knots of rope.

Slowly, April reached over and took one of them, running a finger over its length. “Huh,” she said.

“We could make a trap!” Ripley said. “With this and April’s amaaaazzzing netmaking skills!”

“I could actually . . .” April held the rope up to the sunlight and squinted. “That might work.”

Jen had a sudden, vivid image of the April in her dream, hanging loosely from a bloodstained rope. She shook her head. “Really?”

“I don’t see why not.” April twisted the rope around her hands until her veins popped. “I’m not sure what we could use it for, though.”

Molly laughed and nudged Mal with the tip of her foot. “I bet I know someone who is.”

Mal scratched the back of her neck, trying to hide her pink face. “We’d need to figure out a trigger.”

Something rose, bright and messy, in Jen’s throat. She’d never let herself believe they would make it this far, never let herself get her hopes up.

There were two more people in the Games, two more people with blood under their fingernails and an ocean of sponsors. They outnumbered her, and it would be done soon. One way or another, this long, exhausting charade would end tonight. It was a terrifying idea, but also relieving. No more playing the Capitol’s game.

Mal started to talk, outlining a sketchy plan in jolted flashes of inspiration. She rocked forward on her heels to draw diagrams in the dirt, letting Ripley trace the trees and smiling stick figures. Something insane and visceral was pulling itself together under them, and Jen was too proud to speak.

“What if she came in over here?” Jo said, poking one of the stick girls. “We’d need to change positions too quickly to pull it off.”

“Not necessarily,” Molly said. She squatted next to the drawings and traced a swooping arrow from a figure that was probably supposed to be April to a different tree. “If we had someone here instead, they could cover both spots.”

Mal pushed her fingers through her shaggy undercut. “That could work! Molly, you’re a genius.”

Molly blushed. “It’s a really good plan.”

“Just _kiss_ already,” April stage-whispered to Jo, who giggled.

Dusk came in the way it always did, the sky tripping over itself. Eventually, Ripley scuffed over the illustrations, whispering a quiet _goodbye_ to the stick figures and silence fell.

“Should we take our positions?” April said, voice so quiet it broke Jen’s heart.

She swallowed. She had to be the adult here, had to rub their shaking hands and give reassurances to their unspoken worries. It was undoubtedly the hardest thing she’d ever done when all she wanted to do was curl up in her mom’s lap and go to sleep.

“Yeah,” she said, hoping the catch of her voice wasn’t noticeable. “Yeah, I think- I think that would be best.”

“So this is it, then,” Jo said.

“This is it,” Jen repeated.

“We should do some kind of cheer,” Molly said. “Like- I don’t know.”

“My mama used to call me her little lumberjane,” Ripley said. “Like a girl lumberjack. That could be us.”

“Cutting down trees and bad guys,” Mal said in a low voice that sounded remarkably like her Caesar impression. If Jen heard the tears, she didn’t say anything.

“It’s settled,” April said with a sort of forced cheer that she shouldn’t have had to learn for years. “Everyone, put your hand in the center. We have to do it for good luck.”

Luck was one thing that nobody reaped for the Games had. Jen placed her hand atop the sweaty pile of limbs. “On my count,” she said. “One, two, three . . .”

“Lumberjanes!” they whisper-shouted, throwing their hands into the air. She was sure it looked silly, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. They needed this. They needed to be children, just this once, before that too was taken from them.

* * *

 

Jen traced the stark white whorls of the tree. She wanted something to do with her hands. She wanted the factory, the soothing rumble of machinery, of thousands of pieces fitting together perfectly. If a product came out malformed or broken, it was always easy to tell where it had gone wrong, and she yearned for that now, some small certainty.

Ripley and April were locked in a furious match of rock-paper-scissors. There was a decided swiftness of their motions, no looking back. Neither was smiling, which felt so _wrong_ that it made Jen’s chest ache. What was wrong with people, trying to take smiles away? Which machine broke while making the Capitol, turning the people shrewd and twisted?

Something wasn’t working in her brain. They’d gone over their plan a hundred times, but it felt disjointed when she tried to call it up. This couldn’t be real, none of it could. In the real world, girls like her died in spades. In the real world, she never would have gotten here, to this tree and this clearing and this sickening anticipation, humid in the air around them.

Maybe when you died, there was some part of you that pretended to keep living, like a dream or the way you feel after you get off a train, like the world’s still rushing by and paying you no mind. Maybe there was a part of you that kept wandering around, kept trying to survive in motions rife with pity. Maybe the whole world was filled with ghosts who believed themselves to be immortal.

The cannon rang in her ears. It took several seconds for her to figure out what it meant.

Somewhere below her, Mal gasped, very quiet. Maybe the world around you eventually began to fall apart, little pieces breaking off and disappearing forever, so slow that you couldn’t remember exactly when things stopped making sense.

Someone was dead and someone else was coming. Their plans, their stick-figure diagrams paled in comparison to the actual moment.

“It’s okay,” Jen heard herself whisper. “Remember what we talked about.”

Ripley nodded, confident in herself if Jen was. She wanted to take all of them right now, wanted to climb down and lead them far, far away from the arena and all of its poison. She wanted to walk to the very edges of this place and hammer on the walls, scream until she was hoarse. She wanted to make noise until someone carried them away. She wanted to take them to District Four and build a raft so they could sail to a better place, one that appreciated kids as something other than a creative way to punish their parents.

She didn’t. She clutched the branches of her tree with sweaty, scraped hands and waited like she had all her life. If she made it out of here, she wouldn’t let anything come to her. She would meet it in the middle, fists raised.

A very long time seemed to pass, but the sky stayed the same. A cloud passed over the stars, and Jen squeezed her eyes shut. It was stupid and childish, but she didn’t want the stars to see whatever was about to happen. The beautiful Pleiades, impassive Orion. She needed them to stay pure.

Footsteps, quick and sharp. Jen could pick out the snap of each individual twig, but there was no reason for anyone to be quiet now, was there? Stealth was for hunters with challenging prey- game, she supposed. The very word made her want to peel her eyes out.

“You can’t hide!” someone shrieked. It was the girl, from District Two. Jen tried not to imagine the boy, a slash across his throat, eyes still wide with surprise. “I was _born_ to be a Victor!”

It hurt to imagine her as a baby, still filled with hope for this desiccated world. No one was born to do this.

She was drawing nearer. If she looked up, just once, she would see Ripley’s eyes, wide as dinner plates, or Molly’s hair, silvery in the moonlight. If she looked up just once, it would all be over.

There was no God, only Panem. That was what you were told, from a very young age. God would not save your children, your crops, you. Only the Capitol had the power to save anyone.

No one was getting saved tonight.

The girl did not look up.

Pretty soon, she would be too far away for the plan to work. They had backup plans, too, but those were messier, harder, more chaotic. There were elements they couldn’t control.

Jen cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled, a few short notes that resembled a birdcall. The girl stopped and glanced upwards. She had time to lock eyes with Jen, eyes filled with more hatred then she had ever seen, and a dawning fear.

Jen couldn’t look away, even though her every cell screamed to. Where was Ripley, where was Mal, they should be moving by now, had they forgotten, were they stuck?

Ripley shrieked, animalistic and so powerful it gave Jen goosebumps. She turned and saw Ripley leave Mal’s arms, kicking off with enough force to push Mal backwards. She yelled something Jen couldn’t make sense of, a blurred mix of syllables and emphasis that sounded something like a war cry.

She watched as if in her living room in District Eight, curled into her sleeping mother and chewing her thumbnail. She watched as if she were just another citizen of Panem, anxious for the whole charade to end so she could get back to her life. Her last year, and then she would be safe.

She watched the way everyone else was as Ripley landed an off-center kick, clipping the girl’s shoulder and almost falling as she did, and Jen couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t _breathe,_ why had she engineered this plan so she was so damn useless? Why was she allowing them to take her risks?

Jo grabbed Ripley under the arms and pulled her to safety, a messy tangle of limbs. Ripley still wasn’t smiling, her big eyes, and the blue in her hair almost gone. It was too much, all of it.

The cloud passed and the stars gazed down as the District Two girl stumbled backwards. Her lips quirked into the start of a victorious smile, believing it was all they had. She was still standing, and she was going to kill them.

Her foot caught the snare. Netting burst from all sides, like some flower curling around her and swallowing her whole.

There was a beat of heavy silence. The girl thrashed around, clawing at the rope and snarling, actually _snarling._ Blood dripped from her lip, an old injury, maybe from her fight with the boy. She painted the ground with her victories, her losses.

Jen eased herself down, clinging close to the trunk. All of this, and she still couldn’t climb a tree. Everything had gone very quiet suddenly, and very far away. Frogs were singing somewhere, how could they sing at a time like this? Even the girl in April’s well-constructed net felt surreal, just another hallucination. The arena did that to you, it built you things to keep the Capitol entertained.

She’d managed to extract a dagger from her pocket and was trying to saw through the rope. She would have to work hard to get there, and even so, there were hundreds of little squares. The knife would be dull before the net released her.

Jen wormed a few fingers in through the largest gap. The girl slashed wildly at her hand, splitting the skin over and over again. Somewhere, Ripley shouted her name, still so concerned. Didn’t she see? It was only blood, it was only ever blood. The Capitol needed blood, and Jen understood need.

She closed her shaking fingers around the handle and yanked it free. The girl was crying, salt and iron crusting together on her upper lip. Humans were made of carbon and nitrogen, cells and nerve and tissue. Panem never could appreciate a good miracle. It was such a stupid thing to forget.

“I was _born_ to be a Victor,” the girl said again. “You don’t understand! I was a Career, I trained for years-,”

She did everything right. You weren’t supposed to die if you did everything right. Dimly, Jen registered the rustle of leaves and old branches as her girls joined her, facing their net and their trap and District Two’s deadly Career. Six and one, it was six and one and Jen felt sorry for her. Maybe if she’d had an alliance that wouldn’t turn on her, that didn’t have that hardwired suspicion, these Games would have turned out differently.

Someone had to kill her. Nothing would ever end if they left her in limbo, and it had to end.

“I’m sorry,” Jen croaked. She felt pitiful, the teenager who thought that friendship could solve everything. She tried not to think of her mom. It was late, maybe she was asleep. Maybe she wouldn’t have to watch her daughter do this.

She pressed the tip of the blade to the girl’s throat. Maybe all of Panem was asleep, and she could be alone in her shame.

The girl slowly touched the indentations just below her chin. Her fingers weren’t trembling. “Across the trachea,” she said. “Right here.”

Jen swallowed, acutely aware of her own neck. “I don’t- I didn’t want to-,”

“I know,” the girl said. “Please, just- make it fast.”

“I’ll try,” Jen said. She couldn’t cry, couldn’t blur her vision. She didn’t want it to be painful, but the knife was awfully small.

Later, she wouldn’t remember very much of what followed.

It was painful, and it wasn’t fast. Her hand slipped, the knife shook, and the blood kept coming. She wanted to cover her girls’ eyes, their ears. She wanted to hold them and rock them, gentle and soft. She wanted to tell them that it was okay.

The District Two girl was mostly quiet, only screaming or grunting a few times. Jen hated it. She should’ve been shouting, fighting, trying to knock the knife out of Jen’s hand.

The most awful part was that she didn’t hear the cannon right away, so she kept sawing. It was dark, and she couldn’t see the sputtering rise and fall of the girl’s chest, nor its absence.

A face lit up the sky and Jen tried not to look at it. The boy was grinning in his picture, cocky and confident. The girl wasn’t.

She dropped the knife and turned, bleak and anxious, towards her girls. They were standing in a protective half-circle, watching her.

Several terrible seconds passed in which nobody said anything. How could Jen ever have pretended to be protecting them? She was a curse on them, a weight on their shoulders. She couldn’t contribute to their plans, couldn’t shelter them from the arena.

She didn’t realize she was crying until the force of the tears made her sit down, crouched in the dirt. She scratched at her eyelids, her cheeks, everything that made up the murderer that she was. She gasped and sobbed, trying to cover her face from her girls. They were so young, but so was she, really. So were they all.

She recognized Ripley’s skinny frame and warm arms without opening her eyes. Ripley, tiny hopeful Ripley. Her fastball.

“We love you, Jen!” Ripley shouted, very close to Jen’s ear. “We love you!”

The others joined in, squeezing her neck and waist. Ten hands on her shoulders, ten arms pressed tight. Five hearts beating in tandem with hers, and five voices shouting affirmations until the air was thick with their love for her.

“I love _you_ ,” she said, unable to articulate quite how much. “I love all of you, I- I can’t-,”

“It’s okay,” Molly said, quiet because that was how Molly was sometimes. “It’s _okay.”_ Understanding passed between them, the understanding of killers who loved with all their hearts.

The faces in the sky disappeared. A helicopter dipped down, giant and monstrous, reaching its cold arms to pick up the net and the mangled girl within. Jen watched her go, sorry and sad and filled with too much emotion for one person.

Ripley fell asleep and Jen picked her up. They walked until they found a place with no blood, no sweat or tears, clean of the pain of the arena.

“Someone should keep watch,” Jen mumbled. “I- it’s not over yet.”

“It’s over when we say it’s over,” April said and Jen wanted to cry again. Her _girls,_ her beautiful, brave, strong girls. It was over when they said it was over. For once, the Capitol was at their mercy, not the other way around.

They slept in a pile, and Jen listened for their breaths in the sweet, still night. There was still so much that could kill them, but they wouldn’t die alone.

That was all she could ask for, really.


	18. The Devil in Disguise Badge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sometimes, a Lumberjane must hide her true identity for a scouting mission. Every scout should be well-versed in the art of disguise_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for strangulation, stabbing, animal death, and frank discussion of death

Jen had third shift that night, which meant that she was the sole ruler of the long shadows and unclear rules of the arena at two am. The birds, the frogs, even the solitary singing crickets had fallen silent, leaving an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. They really were alone here.

Once the forest lulled you to sleep, it would become colder and less forgiving, as if to remind you that you could never call yourself master of a place like this. It had been so long since Jen had been afraid in this specific, gut-churning way. There was now nothing else for the Gamemakers to focus their cruelty on. All eyes were turned, impassive and silent, to Jen and her girls, and she didn’t like it at all.

She hated herself for taking this path, making it end this way. She hated the rhythmic sawing of the knife in her hand, her sore wrist, even now. Every time she moved her hand, she became annoyed at how it hurt and then ashamed to even think such a thing. All that she did, all that she was from this moment forward was nothing but the next moves of a murderer. She hated that Mal was to wake up in half an hour and then Jen had to look for sleep in the crevices of her mind, that in her dreams, the blood wouldn’t slow and clot, the helicopter wouldn’t pull any mangled girl from her net.

She leaned against the tree, watching her girls sleep, tangled together. Mal would have a nightmare extracting herself. Maybe Jen shouldn’t wake her up for just that reason; it wasn’t like she was tired.

She closed her eyes and imagined leaving. Slinging Ripley over one shoulder and rousing her girls. Making a chain of held hands like the tired women who ran the nurseries, bringing these children home. Walking all the way back to their Districts, or some no-man’s land in between, where they could live out the rest of their days without anyone trying to kill them even a little bit.

She was so caught up in this fantasy (she would spend her time mapping the stars, and they would live off the land, and the hide-and-seek would be excellent) that she didn’t even hear the twigs snapping until it was too late.

For a moment, she thought that she had been stabbed. There was a sharp pain in her side, a meaty, substanced hurt, and she buckled over. She found herself running over all the tributes that had entered the arena, suddenly terrified that they’d missed one and now they would pay for it. She would be made to watch as five throats were slit.

And then she saw the teeth, half an inch long and whiter than anything she’d ever seen, malicious pearls in the cold moonlight. Her hand was clasped over the wound, and there was always so much blood she couldn’t escape. Faintly, she could make out that it was a bite mark.

Terror came over her all at once, and she opened her mouth to warn the girls, shout until someone woke up and hustled the others out of here. She didn’t think she could run with them; her legs felt so heavy all of a sudden, and her skin weighed her down like there were rocks just underneath it. That was all right. There were people who deserved to live, and people who didn’t, and all games had to end.

She tried to yell, but all that came out was a hoarse, unidentifiable noise, strangled to death before it ever left her lips. Molly rolled over, but no one showed any signs of awareness.

Something grabbed her throat, a jaw that had to be larger than an opened hand. She whimpered like a child, squeezing her eyes shut as pinpricks of blood welled into a dripping necklace. It would be so easy for the beast to kill her. She was at the mercy of the arena yet again, and that was what they wanted, wasn’t it? They wanted her to fear them like she once had.

She punched the open air around her, coming into contact with brittle fur before the skin slickened below her fist, twisting away without ever loosening its grip on her. She could see another form, dimly as her vision streamed together, making a graceful path to the pile of sleeping girls. Everything hurt so much, and all she could do was pray they didn’t wake up as it killed them. That they wouldn’t look at her with their wide, terrified eyes, the stupid teenager who thought she could save people.

The second animal slid smoothly into something larger, tall and slim and standing on two legs. Jen gaped, thinking dizzy thoughts about hallucinations and dreams. The thing that she was victim to tugged a little more insistently, somehow managing to drag her farther away from the pinprick of light that belonged to a smoldering campfire and the remains of dinner.

She could feel herself surrender, and the merciful black spread like spilled ink until no shaky prayers could ever be discerned.

* * *

 

_Mama, mama!_

_No- no- not me, can’t be me-_

_STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP_

_Don’t let them take me! Don’t let them-_

_I’M SORRY I’M SORRY I’M SO SORRY_

_I LOVE YOU._

_I LOVE YOU._

_I’M SORRY._

_I LOVE YOU._

* * *

 

When Jen opened her eyes, she swore that she could hear Ripley singing.

It was a faint, sweet song, mostly in English but with some of a language that Jen didn’t recognize. Sometimes Ripley trailed off, as if trying to remember the words, and Jen would have cried if she could.

But then she could hear something getting closer, and Ripley stopped singing all at once, and suddenly Jen was so cold again. The ground was hard and several things were sticking up into her back.

The thing was a fox. Jen could see clearly now because it was day, and somehow the whole, long night had slipped from her grasp. Her stomach twisted unpleasantly. So she hadn’t been chosen as the first to die, but it did little to assuage her now.

No, it wasn’t a fox. It was something somewhat like a fox, but entirely different in all the worst ways. It had burnt orange fur and dark, intelligent eyes, but there was something cruel and twisted about it, the way it leapt calmly to her side and almost seemed to be smiling, with those terrible blood-spotted teeth.

It sat next to her, fixing its gaze on a spot below her chin. If Jen wasn’t mistaken, it was the same place the District Two girl had- no. No.

The fox regarded her, blackened lips curling inwards like it could read her sickened thoughts.

“A-frAID?” it said.

Its voice was glitchy and syncopated, and it chilled Jen to the bone. It seemed to emphasize all the wrong syllables, like it had learned to express itself through an algorithm. This was the Frankenstein’s monster of the scientific knowledge the Capitol couldn’t bear use for anything good.

Jen didn’t respond. It knew, it knew she was afraid. She wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of saying so.

It laughed, and that was even worse, the sound of rocks crumbling and plunging some poor sightseer to death, the sound of stammering hearts. It leaned in very close to her, close enough so that she could feel its hot breath condensing on her neck, smell the acrid meat and chemicals.

“Not a-frAID?” it said, positioning one knife-sharp claw at her chest, prepared to tear her to ribbons. “LIttle grrrr-ll not a-frAID?” It straightened up on its hind legs, eyes glinting a dull amber. Its spine lengthened with an audible crack, and its arms jerked into elbows. Jen watched in fascinated horror as its head rounded out as if sanded by some sick architect, as fur retracted into its skin and then sprouted again from different places.

It stood in its full height, and it was Jen’s mother.

“HOW a-bou-TUh now?”

Its voice was still the terrible, manufactured voice of the Capital, but it was also her mother’s voice, weary and young and bleeding raw.

Jen tripped backwards, hitting her head against a tree. The thing laughed again, and she realized that she had allowed it to win.

It had everything right in its mimicry, down to the scuffed shoes her mother wore to work and the slight hunch from years of the world beating her down. It was unspeakably terrible to see her here, amidst the deceivingly placid wildlife the likes of which she’d never seen up close. Facing her daughter not twelve hours after watching her kill.

Jen opened her mouth to say that she wasn’t fooled, but her lungs drew the breath wrong.

_“Mama,”_ came out instead, all at once, traitorous. Jen was a woman of logic, of science and reason, but it all fell apart here, where her girls couldn’t see her cry and her mother was looking at her like she was nothing, like she’d died with the District Two girl, like the blood had belonged to them both. It wasn’t real, and Jen knew that if she looked at the details, the eyes with nothing in them, the way she was perfectly still, like a mannequin fresh off the assembly line.

But things fell apart so easily here, and nothing was ever the same as when she left it. People stopped shaking, stopped seeing, after just a few days. People glazed over until they were just one more cold, beautiful thing the Capitol had built.

Her mother didn’t speak. It was because the foxes had a stitched-together dialect, but what if it was just because, in this moment, no words came? What if her shame, her anger was so deep that nothing could convey it?

Her mother started to cry, perfect glossy tears making symmetrical tracks down her cheeks, cutting into the omnipresent soot and grime. Jen watched in fascinated horror, because her mother never cried. Not even when Jen was standing on the stage in her too-small shoes and beginning to die had she seen her mother cry.

District Eight fixed machines and broke everything else, and their little two-person family had been broken since long before Jen was born.

Her mother started to walk closer, still crying, still silent. Her steps were slow and deliberate, and that at least was accurate, because she never ran. She didn’t need to; she was always on time. She reached out and touched Jen just between the coils of the trachea, and she must have felt it like an earthquake when Jen swallowed.

Jen wasn’t crying. Dimly, she felt that she should be, but she had spent so much time crying for the District Two girl’s death that she could no longer cry for her own.

 Her mother’s fingers splayed outwards and then closed, still moving slowly as if she wanted Jen to analyze every move. She was still crying, harder now, nose scrunched into thin rings and mouth half-open as if powerless to stop the heaving breath. She tilted Jen’s head upward and all she could see was sun obscuring her vision, turning everything into screaming light.

It was okay, it was okay. It was okay. Sun in her eyes and foreign breath rattling in her ear. It was okay.

She hadn’t wanted to die, before, and now she could imagine nothing else. The pressure on her throat increased and spots danced, bright, on the back of her half-closed eyelids. They begged her to come. They wanted her, and it felt lovely to be wanted so desperately, so much she could almost taste it.

She’d spent this entire time taking care of others, and couldn’t she be selfish just this once?

It was almost funny; she would have laughed if she’d had the air to do so. The world separated itself into black and white, so black and so white, the noisy dark crowding the corners of her vision, and the sun still blocking out everything else. The dark was pressing with more urgency now, and there was no breath to be had at all, and the sun was retreating, tattered white flag returning to its place in the sky, becoming just a pinprick now, a star again.

Jen liked stars.

And then she was falling and she thought _this is what death is,_ but she hit the ground. She hadn’t been expecting to hit the ground, all in a heap, and she hadn’t expected pain lancing its way up her side.

Her lungs started again. She had never tasted anything as good as this soggy air.

Color came back in pieces, but it was strange color, in soft clouds that covered everything. Pink and orange and blue. The blue was the prettiest. Someone- someone was blue.

_It’s going to rain,_ she thought, dizzy.

And then a scream wormed its way into her, cleaving her spine. It was awful, choked, as feral as anything she’d ever heard. She had thought it to be human once, but it wasn’t. This was the scream of a monster.

It didn’t fall silent for a long time.

It took several minutes for her vision to clear enough to see the treetops, and then all that came with it, leaves and roots and clouds, normal white clouds, not half as nice, but oh well.

And then a voice, so soft and hard it almost made her cry.

“Jen?”

There she was, scraped knees and curdled childhood, learning how to mourn as she went along.

“Ripley,” Jen said.

She was standing above Jen’s head, a cut slicing the bridge of her nose and dirt on her cheekbones. She was holding a sharpened stick, dripping with blood too red to be real. Her hands didn’t shake.

Jen sat up, blinking away the nausea that came with the sudden movement. She was still figuring out how to breathe again.

The animal was crumpled in a heap at Ripley’s feet. In death, it was a fox again, not so proud now, muzzle buried in the midday dirt.

Ripley crouched down. Her hands found Jen’s, and she squeezed through the clamminess. Jen almost laughed, almost sobbed. There was so much in this moment, everything was overflowing and she didn’t know what to do. Ripley seemed far too big to be held now.

“You have pine needles in your hair,” Jen said, reaching out but stopping before she got there.

“It’s a laurel wreath,” Ripley said, and in another world she would have near-screamed it, overcome with excitement and mottled pride. In this one, though, she stated it simply.

Jen nodded, not trusting her traitorous voice.

“Are the others okay?” she asked finally, aware of the hoarse sound of her voice, almost like the fox, but not quite. Not quite.

“We knew it wasn’t you, Jen,” Ripley said. “It tried to pretend, but we knew right away.”

Jen thought about the other fox rising up, growing tall and thin. She couldn’t comprehend anything mimicking her, taking the form of someone who had killed and would be killed. She was too complex for anything else to be.

“The others,” she said again, almost desperate.

“They’re okay,” Ripley said. “We all went looking for you. April and Jo went back to the lake, and Mal and Molly went to the Cornucopia and I came here.”

“By yourself?” Jen said. “Why did you do that?”

“I had to,” Ripley said.

“No, you didn’t,” Jen said. “Ripley, you could have died.”

“ _So could you!”_ Ripley said, and she was screaming now, and there were no tears in her eyes but her voice caught all the same. “You almost _did-_ it was killing you and you were letting it!”

Jen touched the tender skin around her neck, the bruises that would appear shortly. “I- it looked like my mother,” she said, and it sounded lame even to her ears.

“I know,” Ripley said. She was crying now, and all Jen could see were the perfect tracks on her mother’s face. “I _know_ but- Jen, you were dying. You- you’re not supposed to be the one who dies.”

“Ripley,” Jen said. “I- I’m going to die. At some point.”

“Stop putting yourself below everyone else!” Ripley said. “None of us want to be the one who lives! We- we’re all thinking about sacrifice, being brave and dying so someone else can live. But what about the one who does live? What about the victor?”

Jen had always thought that, whoever won, it would be one of her girls. Something in her had privately wanted it to be Ripley, her big, scared eyes and blue hair and whispering, on Jen’s bed, _Twelve-year-olds don’t ever win._ Jen had witnessed Ripley lose her innocence a thousand times, grieving it privately every time, thinking aching thoughts about the poor preteen who could never understand what was happening to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. I- I wanted to protect you. I tried.”

“I have three big sisters,” Ripley said. “I never thought I would be the one in the arena. People- people try to protect me all the time. My mama wants to hide me under her bed and never let me out, I think. No matter where I am, I’m the littlest.”

Jen was trying not to shake, trying not to cry. God, she loved her, loved all of them so much she couldn’t breathe.

“I killed that thing,” Ripley said. “I killed it. And you and Molly, you said that you didn’t mean to or you didn’t want to. I did. I looked at it, and I wanted it to die, and then I made it die. And I killed the other one too. It wouldn’t shift back from you, and it wouldn’t say anything and we didn’t know. It didn’t look too much like you, but in other ways it looked exactly like you.”

She rubbed little circles into the back of Jen’s hand as she talked.

“None of us wanted to kill it, even when it picked up the knife the girl had and pressed it up into April’s neck. Because then we’d have to admit that some of us were going to die and one of us wasn’t, and we would have to stab someone who looked just like you and it would scream and it would die and maybe it would still look like you, and we wouldn’t know for sure it wasn’t. So I grabbed the stick and I killed it.”

“You saved me,” Jen said. “You saved the others too.”

Ripley shrugged one shoulder. The ends of her hair were limp, quiet. “You saved me ‘fore the Games even started,” she said. “Sometimes- sometimes I wish you saw me with that stupid knot and thought _Oh, that’s not my problem_ and focused on yourself.”

That was maybe the worst part. They were at the point in the Games where they wished that they’d died at the very beginning, at the Cornucopia maybe, because it would have hurt so much less then. It was a painful thing, to wish you had never made it this far. The idea of winning, of survival, had become impossibly warped.

“I would have died a hundred times over without all of you,” Jen said. “I hope you know that.”

“Alliances like that don’t exist,” Ripley said. “They’re just a myth.”

“You still think that?” Jen said.

“I don’t know what I think,” Ripley said, and it hurt to hear. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me too,” Jen said. “I’m sorry I tried to protect you so much. I think you’re really fierce and really strong, and no matter what, you’re going to be fine.”

“Maybe,” Ripley said. She shifted so her face pressed up against Jen’s shirt. “Thanks for helping me with the knot.”

“Thanks for helping me with the Hunger Games,” Jen said. Ripley laughed, a little, sharp noise.

Jen could hear the rustling of branches, and she knew from the footsteps that it was April, and Jo was right behind her. She closed her eyes. Her throat still hurt but she could breathe easier now.

She was crying, it had taken this long, and she thought her tears probably looked a little like her mother’s because they always did.

She wrapped an arm around Ripley’s shoulders and Ripley snaked hers around Jen’s waist and they sat there like that, nearly twined together and not about to let go.

They sat there like that, and waited for the rest of the victors to arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 pages in microsoft word boi!
> 
> (i'm lameyards on tumblr, check me out please!)


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